Blood In The South: Game of Thrones Fanfiction Book 1
by Norsebjorn
Summary: Joran Mormont, "The Berserker," is the only son of the disgraced Jorah Mormont. Disfigured, he is loved by most of his family, respected by the people of Bear Island, and feared by its enemies. When Joran is called to The War of Five KIngs, iron and fury follow.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello and salutations fans and critics of old. It is so good to be typing out to you all again after my elongated break from the story. Again, many apologies for leaving you all in the wind for so long. Life had been hitting me very hard at the time and I needed to figure some stuff out and make some changes. Now that my crap is finally together, I'm back baby. Before we can celebrate this return however, I need to forewarn you all that this is not a continuation of the story I left you all with. So sadly, we will not see how Joran will influence the rise of the High Sparrow and how this will in fact aid the Northmen in taking over King's Landing and ending the war so everyone could move onto better things (or worse depending). In this story though, and I will be focusing on Joran's own journey, rather than how he effects everyone else's story (granted, he still does affect them), and I will extend his story into three books, going from the War of Five Kings, to the conflict with the Others, and finally the coming of Daenerys Targaryen and her dragons. Note, and spoiler, I will also be kind of adding some magical elements to the story, minor in some parts, major and climactic in other parts. But, enough about that, let's move on. And as always, I OWN NOTHING, except Joran.**

Book 1: Blood in the South

Chapter 1: A Good Morning

Joran

_Walking barefoot through snow, beneath the black winter skies of The North, or what he believed was The North, Joran, a tall and broad-shouldered man of eight and ten years, wearing nothing but a long-sleeved shirt and a pare of woolen pants, didn't know where in The North he was and he couldn't remember how he got there._

_A strong wind catching his brown hair and causing it to cover his face, Joran brushed the multitude of strands aside and scanned his surroundings. Everywhere he looked, there was nothing but a wasteland of snow and stone to be seen for miles around. And, despite the morbid landscape, snow fell hard from the sky to cover Joran and with it, wind strong enough to lift the Northman off his feet if he didn't brace himself._

_Raising his arm to shield himself from one such gust of wind, Joran asked himself "How in all hells did I get here?"_

_As if in answer to his question, Joran began to hear what sounded like…a voice on the wind. _

_"Hello," Joran called out as he scanned his surroundings to find the sources of the voices. "HELLO!"_

_The falling snow thickening and obstructing his view of the surrounding area, Joran struggled to find the source of the voice. Unhindered by this though, the Northman moved on through the storm, figuring if he couldn't use his eyes to see where the voice was, he would follow its sound until he found the one speaking. But, as though the elements were against him, Joran didn't make it ten steps before the wind became strong enough to halt his advance indefinitely._

_"Hello!" Joran called out again as he struggled against an invisible wall formed by the wind. "Can you hear me!"_

_"Joran."_

What the hell, _Joran thought. _How do they know my name?

_"Joran."_

_"Who's there!" Joran yelled._

_"Joran."_

…

"Joran, wake up."

Startling awake to find that he was back beneath the canvas of his tent, under a thin wool blanket and atop a fur blanket that had been lade down to protect him from the cold hard ground of Bear Island soil, Joran Mormont shot his bloodshot eyes towards the tent entrance. Finding his second in command and oldest friend, Garrett Snow, standing there, he merely grunted out, "Hrrgh."

"Good, you're alive," Garrett Snow said with grim enthusiasm. A Northern bastard in service to House Mormont, he had black hair, a thinner frame than Joran, and was two heads shorter than his larger friend. But, his physical form was not a hindrance to the man in a fight and he had proved the fact many times over.

"What is it Garrett," Joran asked groggily from his position on the ground.

"Arthur's back," Garrett answered.

Everything coming back to him as to where he was on the island and why he was there, Joran rose up to a sitting position, causing the wool blanket on top of him to fall from his form onto his lap. "Good," he said, "ready the men. I'll be out in a moment."

"Will do." Garrett said before removing himself from his leader's tent.

Throwing the blanket off of his body with newfound energy and pulling the basin of water he had laid out the night before closer to him, Joran proceeded to unceremoniously dunk his entire head into the freezing basin of water to shock him awake fully. Pulling his head out of the water, after he felt he had had enough, the man gasped water out of his mouth, shook his shaggy main and drew a hand across his bearded face and through his shoulder length hair in an attempt to get some of the water off before he tried to exit the protection of his tent and into the cold morning air of Bear Island. His eyes upon the water as it settled, Joran looked and saw his disfigured face staring back at him. More of an animal's visage than a man's. He sported a big nose, a top lip with a split down the middle, like the flews of a dog or a bear but covered with a mustache, enough hair on his face to actually make him look like a beast of legend, fangs in place of what a maester would call canines for teeth, and eyes that seemed primal, or feral at times to others, causing anyone to turn when Joran looked at them. But, having lived with his face his entire life, he'd stopped caring a long time ago about his looks.

Standing up fully, Joran moved to change his now wet shirt for a new one, when he thought better of it. Considering what work was about to be done that day, it would be a waste to get a clean shirt covered in blood. So, Joran tolerated the cold piece of clothing and moved to don his armor, which consisted of a long-sleeved gambeson, chainmail byrnie and a sleeveless leather vest that held the standing bear sigil of his house over his heart. Once his armor was secure, the Northman tied a scarf across his face to cover his most handsome feature, retrieved his sword and knife, tied them to his belt and grabbed his double bladed battle ax and shield before leaving his tent.

…

Joining his lieutenants at the front lines of his force of three hundred warriors, known as the Oathbound, Joran looked out from where they stood behind the tree line towards the northern shore of Bear Island. Where there sat an opposing force.

Turning to look at his master scout, Arthur Swift, a Northman from the Stony Shore who was of a similar height to Garrett with a head of blonde hair, Joran asked the smaller man through his scarf, "Wildlings?" Receiving a silent nod from the man, the commander then asked, "how many of them are there?"

"From what me and my boys have been able to make out of them," Arthur answered in his usual cocky tone. "At most, two hundred."

"Do they know we're here?"

"No, made it a point to our men to keep under cover of the trees so we could take them by surprise."

Taking this into consideration, Joran turned to Garrett and ordered, "pass it down the line for the men to step out from the trees."

"Aye," Garrett answered without question before moving down the line to pass the order.

"That's a bad habit, Joran," Arthur said, being outspoken to his commander. As usual. "One that the Wildlings wouldn't bestow unto us in kind."

Knowing full well that surprise attacks and ambushes had their place in certain battles, and that the Wildlings excelled at such tactics due to how small their raiding parties usually were, Joran silently forgave Arthur his habit of speaking out of turn. "I know Arthur. But, I'd like to give them a fair fight. Considering they probably didn't know we were going to be here to greet them."

Having been alerted a day ago to the Wildlings presence in the Bay of Ice by one of the many watchtowers that line the shores of Bear Island, an idea that Joran had come up with alongside his aunt Maege, and that tower's beacons lit all the way to Mormont Keep, the Oathbound had been brought to bear in a short amount of time and marched to the northern shore.

"Eh. Oh well," Arthur said with a nod. "Personally, I don't mind if my prey's a little squirmy when I stick a blade into it."

Agreeing with the sentiment, Joran, grinning evilly under his scarf, stepped out of the tree line with his force of warriors and presented himself accordingly to the Wildlings.

When he heard the first warning cries of the enemy from across the open beach, Joran readied his axe and shield, and then proceeded to shake out his arms to warm up the stiff muscles in them. As he did though, Garrett returned to his friend's side and drew his own sword by the side of the young Mormont.

"All right," Joran looked to Garrett and said, "Garrett, when the charge is sounded, you're with me." Then, turning to Arthur, he said, "Arthur, since you want to be a smart ass this morning, you can hold back with the archers. Tell them to cease fire after two volleys, then charge after us."

"Aye," Garrett said confidently.

"Aye," Arthur said in a disappointed huff.

Taking a deep breath, Joran relaxed his muscles, allowing his shield and heavy ax to hang limp to his sides, and closed his eyes. A habit of his ever since he could remember, the warrior always took a moment before battle to send a prayer to the Old Gods.

_Protect my men, and deliver them to victory. _Those were a few of the only words Joran ever spoke to them. He never asked for anything for himself, and he never got much when he did, save more blood.

Once he had said what he needed to, Joran took hold of the darker part within him that he always kept locked up, and opening his blue eyes he concentrated all of it out towards the force of Wildlings.

Letting out a roar that belonged to the beast within, Joran charged out ahead of his warriors to attack one of the natural enemies of his home and The North. The Berserker now unleashed upon them.

His battle cry matched by every man and woman in his band of warriors, the charge was sounded and the Northmen of Bear Island surged forth with a savage zeal that was enough to shake the very ground beneath their feet.

Charging out further than his soldiers with speed that would seem inhuman, Joran quickly closed the distance between himself and the enemy line and ploughed into the Wildlings in front of him with the strength of the monster inside him. Swinging his heavy battle ax with one hand, the possessed warrior proceeded to cleave heads from their bodies, arms from their shoulders, and legs from their hips. Whilst his ax cleaved and cut, Joran's shield punched and crunched into his unarmored enemies faces and bodies, crushing the skulls of the men and women standing against him or knocking them down for the man's ax to finish them.

Everywhere Joran looked his vision was masked in a red haze that made the blood that sprayed out of his victims, seemingly no different to him than water. One after another, all fell to Joran's wrath, regardless of their own shields of hide leather and any piece of scavenged armor they had upon their bodies for protection.

Hearing a great crash behind him, Joran knew it to be the sound of his fellow warriors meeting with the enemy lines and finally joining him in the carnage. Able to trust that his own warriors wouldn't get in his way as he slaughtered the Wildlings, The Berserker continued to viciously swing his ax to his heart's content. And if any of his men got in his way, well, there wouldn't be any guarantee that Joran could, or would, stop in his current state of mind.

Shoving a wildling warrior off his ax with his foot, Joran frantically scanned the battlefield in search of a warrior that would give him a proper fight. And one that The Berserker in turn, could give a proper end.

Four bodies later, Joran found him.

The man, though as unimpressive as the rest of the lot, was wearing a hauberk of rusty chainmail and he wielded a poorly maintained long sword and what appeared to be a worn-out broad shield of wood. Seeing that the wildling warrior was holding his own against one of the Oathbound soldiers, Joran moved to break the engagement and take on the savage champion.

Both combatants breaking away from each other, it was Joran's soldier who spied him coming first and quickly moved away to a different part of the battle. Confused, the wildling turned to where his opponent had and was met by the crazed, feral eyes of The Berserker.

"Fight me," The Berserker growled loudly through his scarf, brandishing his battle ax as though it weighed nothing.

Understanding, the wildling warrior readied his sword and shield for his new opponent and Joran charged to meet his willing prey.

With a mighty swing of his ax, Joran immediately cleaved through the broad shield that the wildling was holding, like it was a block of wood on the chopping stump. Quickly ripping the broken piece of equipment from its wielder's grip, The Berserker viciously tossed the pieces of the shield aside and blocked his opponent's counter sword stroke with his shield. Brushing aside the wildling's blade, Joran followed up with another swing of his ax in order to kill his opponent. Having _some _experience in fighting however, the savage parried aside the ax swing and viciously slashed at The Berserker. Dodging the attack and knocking the sword away from him with his shield, Joran thrust the head of his ax into the face of the wildling, feigned the attack and then swung the blade of his ax low, gutted his opponent from left to right, and spilling his intestines out of his body and onto the cold ground.

As the man fell to his knees before him in pain, steam rising from his entrails in the cold air, Joran raised his battle ax over his head and with a mighty roar brought it down to cleave the wildling's head in half, ending his brief period of pain.

Scoffing and kicking the corpse aside in disgusted disappointment, Joran looked around the battlefield to find that his Oathbound were cleaning up what was left of the Wildling force.

…

With much of its bloodlust sated, The Berserker proceeded to gather a few corpses of the wildling dead out of boredom and make a pile of them. Once he was satisfied with the amount he had gathered, he then proceeded to sit down and let his rage dissipate completely, drawing the beast back into its cage within his mind.

Unconsciously running his fingers across the broad blades of his ax head, his shield leaning against his legs, Joran brought his bloodied fingers up to his face and stared blankly at them in thought. His mind wandered to the memory of the first time he had ever became The Berserker.

When he was four and ten years of age, Joran had been riding alongside his aunt Maege on across the island, when they had been set upon by a group of robbers who had proceeded to murder the bodyguard that had been with the Mormonts at the time. Surrounded by enemies, with no help to be seen, the masked boy had done what would be seen as impossible to many normal men. He killed them all, using a rage that he had never known was there before to make himself as strong as they were, unleashing a beast that he never knew was there. Granted, Joran hadn't left the fight unscathed, he had saved his aunt.

From that point, Joran had used his anger to fight and survive many times over, whether he was alone against robbers or with his men against Wildlings and Ironborn raiders disguised as Wildlings.

But, the sword Joran wielded, was double edged and he had learned the hard way how true that statement was.

"Joran."

The voice of Garrett bringing him back to the present time, Joran looked up to find his friend looking back at him from a safe distance.

Waving the man over from his seat, Joran, exhausted from going berserk, said in a ragged voice through his scarf, "it's fine Garrett. Give me the news. How are our men and women?"

Nodding as though to assure himself that it was safe, Garrett answered, "there are a couple of ours wounded, luckily none of them serious enough to be unable to be saved. And, no dead."

"Good, good," Joran said before adjusting his shield and planting the butt of his axe into the sand so he could lean on it to keep himself from falling over in his weakened state.

"How about you?"

"Heh," Joran sighed. Every time he unleashed the beast within, afterwards, the warrior always felt too sore and tired to move. Granted, it had gotten better and he didn't need anyone to carry him to bed after he had finished his bloodletting, Joran still hated feeling weak after feeling so powerful. "You know how it is."

"Aye."

Wiping some brain matter from under one of his eyes and flicking it away, Joran's gaze became drawn by an oncoming group of bodies. It was Arthur walking towards him and Garrett, and he was being followed by two other Oathbound warriors with what looked to be a Wildling woman in between them.

"Joran," Arthur said in what sounded like a tired voice.

"Arthur," Joran said before inquiring about the woman, "who is that?"

"Someone," Arthur said, moving to grab the woman and bringing her to her knees before Joran, "who tells us she has vital information that would benefit you, Lord."

Having told Arthur that he hated being called 'Lord,' Joran, having given up all thoughts of that title due to his nature, ignored the stupid formality and took the sight of the wildling woman in. She was wearing a thick long-sleeved woolen dress that seemed too baggy for her to wear. Torn in some places, no doubt by the men who had caught her, it was held steady to her form by a belt at her waste. Her hair was brown and, much like the rest of her kind, wild and shaggy due to being unkept for a long period of time. And when she looked up to meet his gaze, Joran beheld a fierce pare of eyes that seemed to try and bore into the masked man.

Ignoring the glare, Joran, too tired to just kill the woman and be done with it, asked her, "so, who do I have the pleasure of speaking to."

If Joran sounded polite through his scarf, it wasn't because he was trying to be nice to the raider, he just didn't give a fuck otherwise.

"Osha," the woman answered before receiving a smack on her head from Arthur's hand.

"You'll address the man as 'Lord,' when you speak to him bitch!"

Transferring her glare to Arthur, Osha seemed to fume with the desire to kill the man.

"Osha," Joran said in a stern tone to bring her attention back to him. "Look at me."

Turning her glare back to the leader of her captors, Osha obliged Joran with her attention.

"You have information for me?" Feeling an oncoming migraine, Joran wanted to move along with his questioning before he became too irritable to continue and lash out at everyone near him.

"Yes…my Lord," Osha answered. "Information about our new King Beyond the Wall."

At the title, there came a kind of hush to the group, all of whom gave Joran an assortment of questioning stares. Knowing the question that they all desired to ask, that being if he knew about such a figure's existence, Mormont took a moment to think if there had been any word sent from The Wall to warn him of a new Wildling King. Concluding that his grandfather Jeor had either neglected to send him a raven on the matter or didn't know about the matter at all, Joran shook his head at his men in answer and turned his attention back to Osha.

"Really," Joran said while scratching his blood covered head in thought, ruffling his long hair in the process. "Do you have a name to give this, 'King,' of yours?"

"He goes by the name of Mance Rayder," Osha answered, "word was that he has…our blood in his veins. But, he was raised by the Crows of the Night's Watch. Learned their ways, was seen as a way for you southerners to breach the gap between our people and yours."

"What happened," Joran asked, ignoring the fact that the woman had called him a southerner.

"Figuring out what he was," Osha answered, "Mance deserted the Night's Watch and came back to us. In a few months, he united most of the clans and is now their King."

"But not yours?"

"Used to be," Osha said. "But that was before…"

Noticing the change in the woman's voice as she turned her glare onto the ground, Joran realized what it was. Fear.

"Before what?"

Returning her eyes to his, Osha's glare seemed to grow soft and fearful as she said, "before the Others began attacking everyone, and taking them."

At the very word 'Others,' Joran's men began to laugh.

"You do realize how ridiculous you sound," Joran said, feeling perturbed at the fact that, while her life was in his hands, Osha was playing him for a fool. The Others, or White Walkers, hadn't been seen in over eight thousand years and the woman was expecting him to believe her word that they had returned.

"I know it sounds like I'm mad, but–," Osha began to explain before Joran snapped his fingers.

His men jumping to attention and taking hold of the wildling, Joran then stood up from his throne of corpses, his shield clattering to the ground, and leaning on his axe like a cane to steady himself, commanded his men, "hold her down. She obviously wants to play games. And I am not in the mood for _fucking _games."

Forcing Osha to bear her neck to their commander and lord, the soldiers kept her steady as Joran, his anger growing again, prepared to cut off her head.

"I'm not playing games with you, my Lord," Osha screamed in terror in an attempt to appeal to Joran's better nature. "I swear I'm not–.!"

"Prove it then," Joran shouted down at the wildling in front of him, all of his calm composure evaporated from his body to be replaced with an anger that was entirely human and not out of his control.

"I can't," Osha said, turning her face up towards Joran in order to look at him, "but I swear, on the life of my late husband, Bruni, that I'm not lying to you! I swear by the Old Gods that I speak true! And if they deem me untrue, let them strike me down through you!"

Her words halting him from lifting his axe, Joran, hearing the conviction in Osha's voice, took a minute to think about actually ending the woman's life. The wildling was truly terrified, not of him, but something else. It was something that most would believe to be long dead and gone.

_Interesting, _the beast inside of Joran thought behind its cage.

"Let her up."

When the men looked at him as though he had truly gone mad, Joran repeated himself with more force to his voice, "I said let her up!"

Bringing the wildling woman up to stand before their commander, Joran, standing a head taller than Osha, proceeded to wrap one firm hand around her throat and draw her face close to his own masked one.

Speaking low, Joran, his eyes boring into hers, said to Osha, "you know, I've killed plenty of women like you. Spearwives, all of them following their husbands towards _my _island in hopes of bringing back some form of plunder. But, very few of them would have given up information about a leader of this, Mance's caliber. That alone will grant you your life."

When Osha attempted to move from his grip, Joran only held her firm so she could keep meeting his eye. For he wasn't finished.

"But, that doesn't include your freedom. For when the time comes for me to find that you have been _untrue _the words you have spoken to me, I shall be the one to collect your debt to the Old Gods. And when I do, I shall personally hang you up from a weirwood and cut you open, so that your blood may feed its roots. Am I understood?"

Nodding, Osha said, "yes, my Lord."

Releasing the woman so she could be taken back into the custody of his warriors, Joran nodded and said to her, "good."

Before anyone could say anymore, Joran noticed a horseman riding towards their position across the blood strewn sands of the northern shore.

"My Lord Joran," the rider called out before bringing his horse to a quick halt before the gathering.

"Aye," Joran said in response, ignoring the irritating title again and placing his axe over one shoulder as he waited for the man to come to a halt.

When he did, he dismounted and moved to stand before Joran and speak. "Word from Mormont Keep, sir. Your aunt, the Lady Maege orders you recalled."

"Well," Joran looked over the bloodied beach and then back to the messenger. "Seems I was already heading that way anyway. Why did Maege send you all the way up here to tell me?"

"Because, she's been invited to attend a feast at Winterfell in honor of a visit by King Robert."

A little surprised at such news of the king coming to the north, Joran didn't let it phase him. "And that pertains to me, how?"

"As the Lady of Bear Island, she has ordered that you shall escort and attend the feast with her, sir," the messenger answered.

_The hell? _"Why," Joran asked. Sure, he was a capable escort, but aunt Maege new he didn't like to attend parties of any kind, given…condition.

"Along with her presence being requested by Lord Stark," the messenger answered. "Yours was requested personally by his Grace, King Robert."

Now truly dumbfounded, Joran didn't know what to make of the information.

Heaving out a sigh of annoyance, Joran figured he could ask Maege what all the fuss was about when he got home, and said to the messenger, "alright. You can ride back with us. No need to be rushing back to tell my aunt what I mean to say when I get there." _Granted, she might already have an idea of what I plan to say. _

"Thank you, sir," the messenger said as he moved back to his steed so as to lead the horse back to the Oathbound's camp.

"An invitation to a feast," Arthur said, smiling cockily at the thought. "At the King's request. That's quite an honor I'd like to have, especially if the _Queen _will be there."

"Yeah, right," Joran said before retrieving his shield, feeling aggravated at the very prospect of sitting in a hall filled halfway with soft southerners all acting like pretty little girls around real men. All of their eyes looking at him. The freak. _Gods help me._

"Well, might as well get moving, don't want to keep my aunt waiting."

…

Dacey

Alone in the training yard at Mormont Keep, Dacey Mormont, eldest daughter of Maege Mormont at two and twenty years, and heir to Bear Island, violently let out the day's frustrations out on a wooden dummy with her mace. Though she kept her anger in check and remained in control of her movements, so that she could get something out of this kind of 'training,' the young woman didn't bother pulling any of her swings and fully intended to break the wooden man before her. Or, at least, the beast that she envisioned the practice dummy to be.

_Bastard! _Dacey thought as she delivered another heavy blow to the dummy's shoulder with her mace, causing the wood to chip and splinters to fly.

Bear Island had received word that morning of a feast at Winterfell. A feast in honor of a visit from King Robert to The North. For what purpose, it wasn't known and Dacey didn't care. It was something exciting that was happening in the region, and all the northern lords, including her mother, would attend so as to give his majesty a warm welcome.

_Fucker! _Dacey thought as she swung into the dummy's ribs.

The only one though who would be going with Maege Mormont however, was not going to be her composed daughter, who was the match of any man in strength of arms. It was going to be the monstrous, ghastly, beastly, and most barbaric of creatures that had ever come from Bear Island stock in centuries. Dacey's cousin, Joran.

_Cunt! _Dacey screamed in her mind as she delivered a finishing blow to the head of the dummy in the form of a horizontal swing. The impact took the wooden man's head clean off and caused a shower of splinters to fall onto the young lady.

Furiously panting, her limbs covered in sweat and shaking from the exertion, the muscles of her arms swollen from the constant exercise, Dacey halted in her attack and was content to glare at the now headless dummy while she regained her breath.

"I think you finally killed him."

Turning around, Dacey found her mother Maege, in a green dress with a bear skin upon her shoulders to ward off the cold air, looking at her eldest daughter with curious eyes. Leaning her mace against her shoulder, the younger Mormont said, "I don't think so. Even without a head, he's still standing."

"Eh, I think if you give him one good push, he'll fall over without much complaint," Maege said, trying to sound amusing.

Dacey, not amused, demanded, "there a reason you're out here watching me, mother."

"Last time I checked, I didn't need a reason to walk the grounds of my home," Maege simply answered, waltzing closer to her daughter. "Considering the fact that I currently lord over this house."

"Heh, must be so easy for you to brush off questions," Dacey growled in response.

Stopping a few feet from her daughter, Maege said, "you've been out here for hours child. I was just checking up on you to make sure that you hadn't frozen to death."

Only adorning a shirt and vest for her torso and pants and boots for her legs and feet against the cold air that came from the Bay of Ice surrounding the Island, Dacey hadn't been too worried of catching a cold in the training yard. So long as she kept beating on the dummy that is.

"Well, I'm alive, so you don't have to concern yourself with me," Dacey snapped at the older woman.

"Dacey," Maege exclaimed in surprise at her daughter's tone. "What is the matter child that you have a mind to talk to me like that?"

Realizing that she had allowed her temper to get the better of her and caused her to disrespect her mother, Dacey calmed herself down a little and apologized. "I'm sorry ma. I didn't mean to take my frustrations out on you."

"Frustrations?" Maege asked puzzledly.

"I'm, just mad that's all."

"At what?"

"Not what ma. Who."

"Oh Dacey," Maege said while shaking her head in exacerbation and placing her hands on her plump hips. "You can't mean to be angry at Joran."

"Why not." Dacey demanded. It was bad enough that Joran was the one who always got to jump onto the first sign of trouble that came to the Island and take care of it. Now his skill, or face, was recognized by the King, and invited to partake in the festivities about to be at Winterfell.

"Well for one thing, it isn't his fault that he was invited by King Robert to Winterfell," Maege simply put. "If anything, you should be happy for him."

"Being happy for that monster is like being happy for a dog who just learned a new trick."

"Dacey! You shouldn't talk about your cousin so."

"Well it's true. He is nothing but a dog. He's blunt as a training sword in his talk. He has little to no manners at the table. And, the minute he gets angry, all bets are off in his book."

"Dacey," Maege said, her tone hinting her own anger towards her daughter's behavior. "I thought I raised you better than this. Talking bad about your cousin is less than what I would expect from you. In fact, you should be happy that one of our House is being recognized by the King after our long-time disgrace."

Knowing that her mother spoke about how Joran's father, Jorah, had brought a great dishonor to their house by selling poachers into slavery, Dacey withheld any comment she had about how her cousin had the potential to be worse than his sire and took Maege's words with a grain of salt.

"Dacey," Maege said softly as she moved closer to her eldest. "You can't harbor this anger against Joran forever. What happened back then-."

"I think I'll retire for the evening," Dacey interrupted her mother. Moving past Maege towards the Keep, she said over her shoulder, "killing that dummy seems to have worn me out."

Feeling her mother's eyes on her back as she walked away from her, Dacey, gripping her mace so hard that her knuckles were white from the strain, kept on her path. All the while, the memory of that day flooded back into her mind. The day when Joran had almost killed her.

…


	2. Chapter 2

Book 1: Blood in the South

Chapter 2: Homecoming

Dacey

Alone in her room, Dacey, standing above a tub full of hot water that she had asked the servants of House Mormont to draw for her, started to remove her clothes so she could wash the sweat from her body. Kicking off her boots while simultaneously starting the process of unbuttoning her vest, Mormont's mind began to wander to the argument she had just had with her mother.

Remembering Maege's words about harboring anger to Joran, Dacey removed the vest from her body and then drew her long-sleeved shirt over her head. Her torso now bare, the woman looked down at her body. Though she was skinny and lanky in form, Dacey could easily make out the multitudes of muscles that formed her upper body and her skin, in the dim light of the fire in her room, seemed flawless.

All except for a small patch of skin near left hip, which was marked by an ugly scar that served as a reminder to what had happened to her years ago.

Moving her gaze from the spot, Dacey proceeded to drop her pants to the floor and stepping out of them she then proceeded to dip herself into the tub. Carefully setting herself down into the warm water, she gripped the sides of the tub and lowered herself down into a sitting position in the water. Then, submerging her head beneath the water, Dacey immediately lifted her head back up and ran her fingers through her long hair to try and comb out any random splinters that had nested there. Once she was satisfied that there were none, the young woman leaned back against the wall of the tub and relaxed her body.

As she felt a calm wash over her body while in the hot water, Dacey unconsciously moved a hand under the water to rest upon her scar. Taking in a deep breath, she then closed her eyes and felt her mind wander back to that day, four years ago.

…

_It had been one of the few warmer days seen on Bear Island during the Long Summer, and Dacey at seven and ten years had decided make the best of it while it lasted. Walking out into the training yard of Mormont Keep, she had found Joran, a lad of four and ten years, scarf and all, training alone with a wooden dummy. His dull training sword in hand, Dacey's young cousin hit the wooden man with a flurry of swings and thrusts that would mark death to a normal man. If the man was standing still that is._

_ Taking in how well Joran moved against his still opponent though, Dacey's mind wandered back to what had happened a month ago with her mother and her cousin being ambushed by robbers. Returning without their guard with many wounds, the younger Mormont had been carried into the Keep by the elder and quickly delivered into the care of their Maester, Samn Lowther. When she got her mother alone, Dacey had inquired to what happened and all that Maege would tell her was that they had been ambushed and she and Joran had fought off their attackers. _

_ Considering the fact that Joran was younger than her and less experienced in his martial training, Dacey had been, skeptical to say the least, to the story that she had heard._

_ So, her curiosity taking hold of her, Dacey came up behind Joran and playfully asked, "is he dead yet."_

_ Startled by the sound of Dacey's voice, Joran spun around to come eye to eye with his taller, older cousin and said through his scarf in greeting, "oh, hey Dacey. What are you up to?"_

_ "Oh, not much," Dacey answered, clasping her hands behind her back and moving around Joran towards the dummy. And leaning on the wooden man, she went on, "just figured I'd come out and get some exercise while it was still nice out here."_

_ "All right, I'll leave you alone to train then," Joran said sullenly. Even though there were six training dummies in the yard for anyone to hit, the younger Mormont knew better than to stick around while his older cousin was hitting one of them. In short, if Joran was still in the vicinity when Dacey was practicing, she would proceed to use her younger, smaller cousin as the dummy rather than one of the wooden men._

_ "Hold on," Dacey said, grabbing Joran before he could run away from her like he usually did. "I want you to spar with me, Joran."_

_ "Me, why?" _

_ "Why not? You've proven capable of handling yourself, and I want to see if we can make each other better by practicing together."_

_ Though she did want to see if her cousin could finally match up to her, Dacey also wanted to make sure that he wasn't, _too_ good so as to overshadow her._

_ "I…I don't know," Joran stammered through his scarf before his more intimidating cousin. "Maester Samn told me that I should take it easy for awhile to let my wounds heal up."_

_ "If you're taking it easy, why are you out here hitting a dummy. Dummy," Dacey asked, teasing Joran._

_ "He said that I should still keep up my exercise," Joran answered. "I just need to be careful and take it slow so I don't…hurt myself."_

_ "Well there you go," Dacey said before playfully slapping her cousin on his back. "You just got done taking it easy, so now, you can take it easy with me."_

_ "I don't know, Dacey," Joran said, sounding a little skittish._

_ "Oh, come on, don't be such a green boy, Joran." Stepping past Joran towards the rack of weapons off to the side of the yard, Dacey retrieved one of the blunt practice swords and playfully brandished it._

_ "I'm not green," Joran objected. "At least…not anymore."_

_ "If you say so," Dacey said as she leaned her sword against her shoulder. "But, if I were you, I'd prove it."_

_ "Prove it?"_

_ "Yeah." Dacey figured if Joran was going to be so reluctant, then she would have to get him fired up. "Rumors have been going around the Keep lately about what _really _happened with the robbers."_

_ "Rumors?"_

_ "Mhm, people are starting to say that my mom had to save you from the robbers. And while the guards were dying to protect you, you were pissing your pants in fear."_

_ "No, that's not right at all."_

_ Seeing that her plan was working, Dacey kept pouring salt on the wounded pride of Joran. "Yeah, in fact, it was my mom who said it. And considering she's the Lady, everyone believes her."_

_ "Aunt Maege wouldn't do that," Joran yelled at Dacey._

_ "Pff, at least not in front of you, since she doesn't want to hurt your feewings," Dacey said the last part in a baby voice. "But, if you want everyone to think you're a craven, and a freak, go ahead, don't bother sparring with me. Let everyone see how much of a green freak you are."_

_ "Shut up." Joran growled through the scarf._

_ "Oh no, did I hurt the babies feewings," Dacey said in a feigned look of surprise. "Oh, we don't want to do that. He moight try and k-k-k-kill me."_

_ "I said shut up," Joran yelled before taking a fighting stance, the point of his practice sword pointed at Dacey._

_ "Why don't you come over and make me, craven," Dacey said as she took a stance of her own._

_ "Raaagh," Joran yelled as he charged his cousin._

_ His first swing coming in a sideways stroke, Dacey easily parried the attack aside and countered it with a swift combo to Joran's arm and leg._

_ "Arm and leg, your dead."_

_ "I'll show you dead," Joran roared as he charged her again._

_ As Joran began to wildly swing his practice sword at her, Dacey blocked, parried and dodged all of the younger Mormont's attacks and smacked him over and over again at every opening that he gave her. _Seriously, _she thought as she parried and countered Joran again, _this is what Joran did to help mom kill those robbers. Pitiful.

_ Parrying aside another swing, Dacey, now tired of playing around with Joran, instead of hitting him in his arm, leg, or torso, smacked him on the side of his face. Her blow staggering her cousin, causing his scarf to fall from his face, the elder Mormont watched as the younger turned his back to her._

_ Joran, appearing to be stunned by her final blow, stood as still as the wooden men around them and Dacey, knowing that she won, stuck the point of her practice sword against her cousin's back and said, "dead."_

_ As she started to pull her blade away from her cousin, Dacey, instead of being met with the silent weeping that Joran was usually prone to do after she beat him, heard a low grumble emanate from Joran._

_ "Joran?"_

_ Instead of receiving an answer in the form of words, Dacey was met with a vicious back swing from Joran as he turned in place that knocked her sword aside as though it wasn't there. Then, in a matter of seconds, the older Mormont was forced on the defensive against her younger cousin, who swung at her with vicious strength and speed that she didn't know he could exhibit._

_ Wide eyed and terrified of what was happening, Dacey, struggling to parry all of the oncoming attacks, looked at Joran's face and saw that it had changed. Instead of seeing a soft eyed, disfigured, and docile boy, in front of her stood a wild beast with a vicious glare glaring straight at her and fangs bared. Hungering for her blood._

_ "Joran, stop." Dacey cried out in vein as she felt herself losing more and more ground to Joran's flurry of steel. "Stop! Joran, please! STOP!"_

_ Swinging her sword down at Joran's head, Dacey figured that if she could knock him out, then she could get a reprieve and Samn could look to the younger boy's injuries after the fact. But, before her blow could connect to her cousin's cranium, he caught it in midair in his bare hand._

_ Attempting to remove her blunt sword from Joran's grip, Dacey was shocked to find that her cousin gripped it with a strength that wasn't human. _

_ "All right Joran," Dacey said, her voice shaky. "You win. You can let go now."_

_ His feral eyes looking at her with a kind of cold and unfeeling intelligence, Joran, still gripping Dacey's practice sword tight enough to draw a thin line of blood from his hand, said only one word._

_ "Dead."_

_ Then, before she could react or try to move out of the way, Dacey felt the tip of Joran's practice sword slam into her as he thrusted it forward. Driven back by the force of her cousin's blow, the young woman was pushed back a short distance before her back hit one of the walls of Mormont Keep. Pinned to the wall by the blunt tip of the practice sword and the force that Joran applied behind it from the hilt, Dacey began to feel the tip begin to dig into her body._

_ "Joran," Dacey gasped, feeling her torso constrict as her cousin pressed the practice sword harder and further into her. "Joran…stop."_

_ "Dead." Joran growled, his cold stare never leaving Dacey's eyes as a sick grin began to form on his face, revealing his long canines._

_ "Help," Dacey tried to cry out. "Hel-."_

_ And then, she felt it. The tip of the practice sword was past her clothes, and in her skin, going further into her body as Joran continually drove it in from the hilt._

_ "Aaaaaahhhhh!"_

…

Startling back to reality, Dacey, her sudden movements causing the bath water to splash in and out of the tub, opened her eyes to find that she was back in her room, naked and in her bath tub. Checking her surroundings, the woman felt some relief at finding that she was alone and safe. And much to her surprise, Dacey felt that she was pressing hard on her scar, as though to stem any blood flow that came from the old wound.

Bringing her hands to her face as the shock of the memory enveloped her, Dacey started to silently cry to herself. The guards that day had heard her scream and had rushed to her rescue. Despite their best efforts to get Joran off of her and not hurt him at the same time however, had made their presence unhelpful. When all was said and done, it had been Maege who had saved Dacey, knocking the feral boy out cold and allowing the guardsmen to get her daughter to the Maester.

In between her sobs, Dacey whispered to herself, "you son of a bitch. You son of a bitch."

Feeling all alone, Dacey curled up into a ball, wrapped her arms around herself and proceeded to rock back and forth in the water while she cried.

…

Lyanna

Keeping the bow in her hands steady, her sites adjusting to the circular target made of hay that was placed before the wooden palisade surrounding Mormont Keep, Lyanna Mormont, let go of the bowstring and sent her arrow flying through the air. The projectile hit the target with a heavy thud, and the eight-year-old let her longbow fall to her side as she eyeballed where she'd hit. Rather than being stuck in the bullseye as she intended, Lyanna saw that the arrow had landed in the circle of the target directly above the dotted center.

"Shit," Lyanna cursed under her breath before taking a new arrow from her quiver and knocking it onto her bowstring.

Taking a moment to check the direction of the wind, Lyanna eyeballed the target again so she could figure out how far she needed to adjust her hold so her aim was true this time around. Given the fact that the sun was going down, the child didn't have much light to work with and figured that she might as well make this last one count.

But, before she could draw her bowstring, Lyanna felt her sides being grabbed, then tickled ruthlessly by an unseen form.

"Ahh," Lyanna cried out before wriggling free of the hands and turning to face her attacker.

Coming face to face with her giant of a cousin, newly returned from his trip to the northern shore of the island, Lyanna squealed out happily, "Joran!"

Casting aside her bow and arrow so she could wrap her arms around her beloved cousin, Lyanna grabbed the big man around his neck and as she buried her face into the neck of his scarf felt herself being lifted up off her feet by Joran and swung playfully around in a circle. Screaming giddily before her cousin halted his turning motion, the younger Mormont then felt the bigger man lift her higher and set her upon his broad shoulders. Her arms wrapped around her cousin's neck to steady herself, Lyanna asked Joran, "when did you get back?"

"About a few minutes ago," Joran answered through his scarf before he carefully bent over to pick up his younger cousin's longbow and arrow.

"Did you ruff up some wildlings," Lyanna asked.

"That I did little one," Joran answered. "Me and my lads handled them like we always do."

"That's good," Lyanna said as Joran began to make his way towards their family's Keep. "I'm glad you made it back before dinner started. You must be hungry."

"Yeah, handling wildlings does make a man hungry," Joran responded as Lyanna fondly ran her fingers through his mane of hair. "Now that we're on the subject, what is for dinner?"

"Mama is having the servants make us some briskets and porridge," Lyanna answered her larger cousin.

"Hopefully they make enough to fill me up this time."

"Oh Joran, there's never enough food to fill _you_ up. You're as gluttonous as a bear."

"Don't tell anyone, alright." The two laughing as Joran walked on through the palisade towards the Keep, Lyanna watched as Joran's men made their way into the radius of the wall and spread themselves out to make camp.

"I saw that you've improved in your archery."

Breaking her gaze from the incoming soldiers, Lyanna looked down at Joran and said sadly, "I hit the target in the center yesterday. I was trying to hit it again so I could impress you when you got back.

Chuckling, Joran said in reassurance to the little girl, "The fact that you're pulling the string of a longbow at your age, impresses me, little one."

"Thanks, Joran."

Drawing closer to the Keep, Lyanna and Joran looked upon their home with a fondness that only northerners would have for the place. The Keep, built simple for simple folk like its occupants, was a three-story structure made of thick wooden logs. At each corner of the roof were small towers that would act as posts for archers should any force make it through the surrounding palisade. Mormont Keep, though not as grand as other forts or castles held by other houses of The North, made up for its simplicity with how homely it was for the Mormonts who lived within.

"So, I take it that your mother and sisters are inside," Joran asked as they drew closer to the entrance of the keep, which consisted of a pair of doors that had a woman in a bear skin holding a babe in her arms and an axe in her hand carved into the wood.

"Yeah," Lyanna said. "But, Dacey is in her room. She and mom had a big fight earlier today about the letter that came for mom.

"Really," Joran said, somewhat surprised that Dacey wasn't going to greet him with her cold, angry eyes while she gripped a knife on her belt that she kept ready just for him, he figured that maybe he deserved a night without having to worry about his cousin trying to kill him.

"Yeah, Dacey was really angry," Lyanna went on. "So angry that she broke a practice dummy with her mace."

"Hm, that's too bad for the dummy."

Beginning to climb up the earthen rise towards the doorway to the Keep, Joran seemed to be disgruntled by the news.

"What's the matter," Lyanna asked.

"Nothing. I'm just thinking about the trip I'm about to be going on with your mother to Winterfell."

"Oh yeah," Lyanna said, suddenly remembering the news that came that morning to the Keep from House Stark. "Are you excited that you were invited?"

"Eh, less so."

"Why? You get to go to Winterfell. See the King in person. Maester Lowther keeps saying that it's an honor to have been invited."

Sighing, Joran gave Lyanna an answer. "I just find it suspicious that King Robert would ask for me personally to attend such a random visit."

"Well," Lyanna took a moment to consider Joran's words. "When you put it that way, it is a little funny. But, you have to be famous by now for all the good you do on the Island."

Her statement going unanswered, the two entered the Keep, Lyanna was set back down by Joran and offered her the bow and single arrow back from him. Accepting them, the little girl moved to walk beside him as he moved further into the building.

Immediately walking into the Main Hall of the Keep, which dominated all of the first floor, the two Mormonts beheld the center hearth burning hot and bright, giving off a great glow that illuminated most of the Hall. On either side of the hearth were rows of great wooden pillars that had varying shapes and designs carved into them. Adjacent to the fire was a long table where the family would sit and eat and drink together during their meal times. On the other side of the hearth, opposite to the front door, stood the lone chair that belonged to the ruler of Bear Island, where he or she would sit when receiving guests of import.

Though most who would walk through would call it a plain setting, it was home for the Mormonts.

Approaching the table, where Alysane Mormont sat with her daughter Jenna beside her and her son Ivar in her arms, Lyanna and Joran, almost getting bowled over by Lyra and Jorelle as they played tag with one another, greeted the woman kindly.

"Hey sis," Lyanna said with a smile before setting her bow and quiver on the table.

Looking up from Ivar, Alysane, a short and chunky, yet muscular woman, dressed in a green cloth vest over a long-sleeved tunic and brown pants, gave a smile of crooked teeth to Lyanna and Joran when she laid her eyes upon them both.

"Hello Lyanna. Joran, when did you get back?"

"Mere minutes ago, Aly," Joran answered while setting a fond hand down upon the young mother's shoulder before turning his eyes to Ivar. "Let me see this little man," the big man said in a sweet tone through his scarf.

Watching as her sister gave up her son to their cousin, Lyanna observed as Joran, his eyes softened as they looked upon the babe, nuzzled his covered nose against the child's. It was a sweet sight that only her family would ever get to witness and understand, given her cousin's reputation for being a violent man in the world beyond the Keep. But, when he was home, to Lyanna, Joran wasn't an angry monster or a killer, but the gentlest person that she would ever know.

"You've been keeping mother waiting for too long Joran," Alysane said as her cousin gave her back her son. "And you should know, she's pissed at you for making her wait."

"Eh," Joran said, giving a nonchalant wave of his hand before picking up Jenna and taking a seat where his niece had been. Then, putting the nine-year-old on his knee, he continued, "protecting the Island is taxing work, Aly. She's lucky I didn't take my time in returning."

"I bet you wouldn't say that if mother was out here," Lyanna playfully retorted from the other side of the table.

"I'm not scared of Aunt Maege," Joran said as he bounced Jenna on his knee.

"You should be, Joran Mormont," came a voice from further down the Hall that drew everyone's attention.

Walking towards the hearth accompanied by her house's Maester, Samn Lowther, was the Lady of the Keep Maege Mormont. "Considering the fact that you've been keeping me waiting all day."

After he had set Jenna down from his knee back onto the bench, Joran stood up to his feet and moved towards his aunt.

Watching as he came to a stop before her mother, Lyanna saw a very clear difference between her cousin and Maege. Joran, tall, broad shouldered and a well-muscled younger man with a full beard beneath his scarf and a wild head of hair. Compared to Maege, two heads shorter than her nephew, was a wide and buxom woman with both fat and muscle, much like her daughter Alysane, that gave her the appearance of her nickname the She-Bear, her hair was grey with age and her face, though old, held eyes that were hard and stern enough to make any man beneath them shrivel back in fear.

Even though age and gender separated them however, the two Mormonts were undoubtedly the strongest people that the little girl knew.

"Hello to you too, Aunty," Joran said through his makeshift mask as he stared down at Maege. "Glad to see that you're alive too."

"Don't be snide with me, Joran. You know how im-," Maege spoke threateningly before being swept up into a bear hug by her nephew.

"Oh, don't be so mean to me, _Aunty," _Joran growled teasingly as he squeezed Maege in his arms before she pushed him off, her scolding of him far from over.

"I wouldn't have to be if you knew how to be quicker on your feet."

"Well I'm here aren't I," Joran said, flabbergasted at the older woman's attitude. "By the way, why in all the southerners' Seven Hells is the King asking me to a feast at Winterfell?"

"Dunno, but you're expected and believe it or not, you will be going with me on the next tide." Maege answered.

"Pff, we both know damn well why," Joran grunted. "His royal highness wishes to see what all the talks about on Bear Island."

"Joran, it might not be like that," Maege said. "He was a fighter at one point in his life and perhaps just wishes to meet someone of a similar caliber as he was in his youth."

"Heh, right."

Then, lifting a gentle hand up to Joran's face, Maege drew the scarf he always wore down to reveal his real face.

"Joran, you can't hide from the world forever," she said to her nephew, her tone gentle like it always was to the disfigured man. "And, people know you for the work you do in service to the realm here, protecting those who can't protect themselves. Ned and Robert probably want to reward you for what you do."

Watching as her cousin's eyes misted over in thought, Lyanna was surprised to hear Joran's next set of words. "Hrrgh. Fine, I'll go with you and see this King. I warn you though, nothing good can come of it."

"All I can ask is that you be present. Beyond that, I know Ned will stop Robert from forcing you to do anything you don't want to."

"I'll hold you to that." Joran said as he turned from Maege to move back to the table. "Wouldn't hurt to see Winterfell I suppose. Might be a new experience before I go see grandfather."

"See Jeor? Whatever for?" Maege asked as she followed Joran.

"I just need to confirm some information I've recently obtained."

"Information?"

"I'll tell you later, Aunt," Joran said before a commotion drew everyone's attention back to the entrance of the Keep and stopping Lyra and Jorelle in their play.

Lyanna watched as two men-at-arms carried a woman between them across the Hall towards the back where the entrance to the dungeons were, and asked Joran, "who was that?"

"That there, little cub, was a wildling," Joran answered, his tone taking a serious edge.

"She part of the group you and your lads took care of?" Alysane asked, eyeballing the woman like a mother bear would if a new threat had come into her territory.

"Aye."

"What in the bloody hells is she doing here?" Maege demanded, giving Joran's arm a slap.

"She's where the information came from, Aunt Maege."

"Is that so? You sure that she wasn't lying?"

After taking a moment to consider how he would answer the older woman, Joran said, "Jeor's the only one who can confirm if anything she's told me holds any merit. If it turns out it doesn't, then I'll handle it."

"And if it does?"

"Hm, haven't thought that far ahead yet. But, I'll figure something out."

"Well, whatever it is, it must be worth something if you had to restrain yourself over one of those savages," Maege said, her tone letting her contempt for the Wildling people be known.

"It might be," Joran said before looking to Maester Lowther. "Samn, could you send grandfather a raven, telling him that I'll be heading his way."

"Of course, Joran," Samn said before turning to accomplish his task.

"Why not just send a raven and ask the questions you need to in the letter?" Maege asked. "Would make things a little more convenient."

"It would, but I want to see Jeor." Joran answered plainly. "It's been too long since I last saw him. I want to see how he's doing."

"Heh, might warm that old badger up to see a familiar face up there after so long," Maege said with a hearty laugh. "He'd appreciate it without a doubt."

"Aye, that he would," Joran said before taking a seat on the bench with Maege and among his family.

…

Joran

Once dinner had been concluded and his time with his family well spent before the awaited start to his and Maege's trip to Winterfell, Joran, gathering what was left of the food, took a plate of scraps down to the underground cells of Mormont Keep, his chosen place of housing in the hold. Walking down the wooden steps that lead to the entrance to the prison and his rooms, he was met by the two jailors that stood post at all times there and when he gestured for them to unlock and open the door, they did so without question and without looking at his exposed face. After accepting one of the jailors' key rings, Joran stepped into the dark prison, the only light there belonging to the torches on the walls, and moved to the first cell on his right. As expected, he looked in and saw the shape of the wildling within the blackness.

"Woman," Joran growled into the dark cell.

"Mhm," was the answer he received from Osha.

"Food."

Seeing the shape sit up in response to the word, Joran, instead of waiting for Osha to come to the bars to take the plate from him, took up the key ring and unlocked the cell door. Then, opening the door so that he may be admitted, he stepped into the cell and came to stand before his wildling prisoner. Having walked into cells that had occupants many times before, mainly to deliver prisoners meant for execution to the block, Joran had had nothing to fear then and knew that he didn't have anything to fear from Osha now.

She on the other hand, even in the dimly lit cell, was very fearful and the minute Joran came to stand before her, Osha pressed herself back against the wall behind her. Perhaps in hope that the wall would swallow her to protect her from her beastly jailor.

Finding no amusement at the familiar scene of someone seeing his real face, even in the dark, Joran, squatting down where he was, set the plate of food down in front of him and then proceeded to slide it to Osha.

When the plate came to a stop immediately before her, Joran growled one word in command, "eat."

After a brief pause, as though contemplating if the food was even safe to eat, Osha thrust her hands forward and grabbing the plate, began to shovel the offered meal into her mouth with her hand.

"You'll have to forgive me for lack of utensils," Joran said, rubbing his hands together in a slow and methodical manner. He was unapologetic in his adamant decision to deny such a small commodity to prisoners in his keep. Last thing he wanted was to tell one of the jailors' families that their father or mother had been stabbed to death with a fork.

"It's alright," Osha said after she had swallowed a mouthful of food. "It makes sense."

Stopping his hand rubbing, Joran, taken aback by the woman's automatic agreement to his decision, had expected some kind of offhand retort or complaint. Or any words at all for that matter. _That's a first, _he thought.

"Only a fool would give someone who wants 'em dead something to get the job done," Osha continued.

"Same could be said about the food," Joran said, marking the woman's statement to his memory. "Maybe I made a mistake giving you something that could help you get your strength back."

"Doesn't really make a difference with you though, does it?" Osha asked. "Whether a man's stomach is empty or full, you kill 'em either way."

"You're not wrong."

Pausing in her eating, Osha looked up from the plate to Joran and inquired, "why are you feeding me?"

A simple question to answer, now that one particular discussion at dinner had been resolved between himself and his Lady aunt, Joran said, "I'm feeding you because you haven't eaten anything all today. And, if I'm going to be taking you with me anywhere, I'd rather you somewhat fed than starving."

"Taking me where?"

"Well, I can't really just leave and expect you to be alive when I get back, now can I," Joran plainly stated. "I've got plenty of boys outside the keep that would love to save me the trouble of skinning you alive or relieving your head from your shoulders. And I know at least two women in the keep who would love to rob me of a small chance at personal bloodletting. So, in order to keep my word and you alive until I can prove whether you've been feeding me lies or not, I'm taking you with me to the mainland and then to the Wall."

Pausing a moment so as to think about what to say, Osha then said, "that's…kind of you."

"Don't mistake me," Joran said, with a cold and threatening tone. "You will be bound and shackled the entire trip. Any attempt at escape will be met with the lash or death, depending on how many times you try my patience. You will be respectful to any and all members of the company that I or my aunt desire to bring along with us. And don't be flattered by my decision to spare your life from the blades of others, because that right and your life, belong to me now."

Answering his words with only silence, Osha returned to picking the food from her plate with her hand and placing the morsels in her mouth.

Wishing to leave the conversation with that, Joran rose from his squatting position and turned back to the cell's entrance. "I'll get the plate from you in the morning."

"Milord.".

Stopping at the entrance of the cell, Joran looked over his shoulder and said, "what?"

"What are you?"

Fully turning to face the Wildling woman again, Joran, boring into the shadowy figure with eyes as hard as steel, said in answer. "A monster."

It was what Joran knew he was, and it was why everyone away from home feared or hated him. And he didn't care.

Closing the door of the cell and locking it without another word, Joran then moved on down the prison hall to where his personal cell was located when he caught Osha say in a whisper behind him. "Thank you."

Shaking off the creeping feeling of pleasure at doing something kind for an enemy, Joran walked further into darkness, leaving the light behind him.

…


	3. Chapter 3

**Hello friends, fans and critics, welcome back to Blood in the South. Thank you for all your reviews and welcome to any newcomers that are now following the story. Hopefully you newcomers enjoy reading this story as much as I do in writing it. Enjoy and remember, I OWN NOTHING! Except Joran.**

Book 1: Blood in the South

Chapter 3: Dreams and Drinking

Joran

After a week of traveling, the small party consisting of Joran in his cloak with his hood up, Maege Mormont adorning her bear skin cloak, guardsmen and servants in service to House Mormont, and Osha the wildling, had finally arrived to Winterfell. The majority of their journey having been on land, considering it only took mere hours to sail from Bear Island and land at Deepwood Motte, the group's journey had been unhindered by either man or beast. Which, although he didn't mind the break in the natural cycle of violence that plagued Bear Island, Joran found himself slowly succumbing to a laxed boredom. It wasn't a bad thing, he just didn't like the feeling of being comfortable out in the open. So much so that Joran had continually caught himself scanning the vegetation of the Wolfswood to try and spot some kind of threat that would be lurking in the trees.

With so many big names and faces going to Winterfell to attend to the King and the Warden of the North, it would be foolish to think that there wasn't going to be a group of robbers somewhere lying in wait. But that was Joran being realistic.

It wasn't all paranoia though during the journey through the Wolfswood. Looking at the brighter side of things, Joran saw the trip, which he still thought was a bad idea, as a kind of short break from fighting the raiders that plagued the island from time to time. When he really considered it though, this break would soon be extended when he began his way north to The Wall with Osha in tow.

Every time his mind came back to the Wildling's talk of Mance Rayder or White Walkers, Joran's eyes were drawn over his shoulder to look at Osha, who rode behind him on a mule that was tied off to his saddle by a rope so the beast would remain on track and not wander and allow its rider a chance to escape. Not that she could, considering as the mule was tied to the young Mormont's saddle, she was tied to the mule. And while this was how Joran had kept her in line in daylight, in the evenings under the canopy of the forest, he went to other lengths to ensure she remained in his custody, going so far as to tie her to his ankle while they slept in the same tent. Keeping one eye open while he slept, the young Mormont hadn't caught Osha attempting anything. Quite the opposite in fact, not wanting to bother him to such an extent that he always felt her at his back laying on the ground as stiff as a board. No doubt fearing that the slightest move could set him off.

If Joran could call her anything, it was wise. To a point anyway.

Pushing his multiple thoughts aside as the party entered the village that surrounded Winterfell, Joran took in the sights and sounds of the place known as Wintertown.

It was a big place that had a humble feel to it as Joran moved his hood covered head around to look at his surroundings. A lot of people were out and about their own business, some taking notice of the party and offering a wave to Maege, or a curious expression to Osha and the hooded figure leading her. Having been given looks like those and worse throughout his life, Joran didn't mind or care for that matter and just kept riding.

"Quite a day today," Maege said beside her nephew, drawing his attention from the road to her. "Everyone must be preparing to receive the Royal Family, not just Ned."

"Wouldn't you want the whole of Bear Island to be spotless if you were in Stark's shoes?" Joran inquired. "News must have spread from Winterfell and now all the smallfolk are preparing to show off their wares to the King and everyone with him."

"Speaking of wares," Maege said, nodding her head towards a certain building to their left. "Look at what's being shown off there."

Looking to the location his aunt gestured towards, Joran beheld a building with what looked like all of its occupants hanging off the railings of the first and second stories. It was a brothel, and its occupants, prostitutes, who upon noticing the party, started to catcall.

Not one desiring to be noticed by women, be they noble or lowly, Joran turned his gaze from the place and adjusted his hood to mask his face from the onlooking gaggle of hens trying to find a cock willing to pay.

"It doesn't hurt to look, lad," Maege said, having noticed his apparent disinterest.

"Hurts if they do though," Joran muttered through his scarf. Of the many facial expressions that girls had given him throughout his life, a few of the more common were those of suppressed laughter, disgust, or more commonly, fear. He hated the looks and knew that if ever Maege set him up with a noble lady to marry, if one was ever convinced to have him, that he would be cursed to live with those same looks until either he was in the ground or she was.

"You can't hide forever nephew," Maege said, sensing his discomfort.

"Samn thinks I can, and he says there isn't anything wrong with waiting," Joran said, the Maester being the only father figure the younger man had ever really known to care about him in his life.

"Lowther's a maester, Joran," Maege said, apparently disagreeing with the older man's sentiment. "You are someone important. Even though you don't think so or want to be. And regardless of your feelings of lording over Bear Island when I'm done, there still will be a need for more Mormonts to inhabit the Keep."

"Heh," Joran should have figured his aunt would bring up his reluctance to take the mantle of Lord of Bear Island. With everything surrounding his father Jorah, he didn't want to be the next worse thing to happen to the Island or the House's reputation for that matter, after working so hard to bring it back up. And besides, Joran wasn't lord material. He was too prone to be a violent personality, even when he didn't want to be. Gods, he slept in the dungeon for good reason. In Joran's mind, the title should go to one of Maege's girls, end of discussion. At least for him.

"Just try to keep an open mind, Joran. For the House." Maege said, trying to sound like his mother desiring more grandchildren. "But, while you do, try to behave while we're here."

"I practically keep myself on a leash," Joran said as the group finally came upon the gates of the keep of Winterfell. "I doubt you have anything to worry about."

Halted by Stark guardsmen at the entrance, who then proceeded to inform the Mormonts that the castle was going to be packed for the royal party and that those accompanying them would have to find lodging in Wintertown, Joran and Maege dismounted, the hooded man advising his house guards to keep an eye on Osha, then proceeded into Winterfell. Entering the courtyard, the Mormonts were welcomed by various servants rushing around the place, finishing preparations for the King's arrival without a doubt, on their approach to the actual castle. Walking up steps of stone and through the grand archway to the massive structure, Joran and Maege found themselves in the great hall, that seemed to be the calmest area in the place.

But not unoccupied. Standing in the middle of the hall, looked to be lords from each of the northern houses, all mingling like a gaggle of women. Until one of them, a rather tall fellow looked in the direction of the doorway and yelled out "Maege!"

With that, the other lords looked in the direction of the Mormonts, giving Joran an uneasy feeling with all the eyes on him, and the big man who had yelled, moved out of the group to approach Maege.

"Hello Jon," Maege said to the man as she walked up to him and embraced the man like he was Jeor himself. "How are you?"

Towering over the woman after he broke the hug, Jon answered "good and well. You?"

"I'm here aren't I. Must mean I'm still kicking."

The two older folk sharing a chuckle, Maege turned and waved Joran forward, saying "come here Joran."

Stepping further into the hall, his hood and makeshift mask still on, Joran must have seemed like a very questionable personality to all present, because all eyes were still on him. Coming to stand before the giant, who stood at an equal height with him, the young Mormont listened as Maege introduced him to Jon.

"Joran, this is Greatjon Umber, Lord of Last Hearth and an old friend."

"Pleasure to meet you," Joran said through his scarf, extending an open hand to the man before him.

"Pleasure is all mine," Greatjon responded before taking the offered hand. "I take it you're _the _Joran Mormont? One everyone's always talking about that keeps beating Wildlings off Bear Island?"

Finding it rather strange that a mainlander would know what he does best, considering the fact he never necessarily tried to broadcast his business to the rest of the world, Joran answered, "the same. And you're the famous Greatjon that Maege reminisces about from time to time."

"Well, I wouldn't call what she says about me reminiscing," Greatjon said upon releasing Joran's hand. "More like cursing."

"Ha," Maege scoffed before playfully punching Umber on the arm.

Smiling beneath his scarf, Joran agreed, "aye, more or less."

"You happen to have seen the Glover brothers here?" Maege asked.

"Aye," Jon said before turning to see two more men approach. Two men that Joran recognized to be his uncles from Deepwood Motte.

"Maege," the brown-grey haired Robett greeted in a happy tone before embracing Maege Mormont like a sister before turning to Joran and embracing him as well. "It's good to see you Joran. You got bigger."

"Nephew," the full grey haired Galbart said before drawing Joran into another hug once he had separated from Robett.

Drawing back after the hug was over, Joran, having not seen Robett or Galbart in five years, new that the two would be surprised to see him there on the journey to Winterfell and knew that despite their friendly faces, were surprised still.

"Good to see you both here," Joran said in a tone that he believed to sound genuinely happy.

"What have you been feeding this boy, Maege," Robett asked while patting Joran on his shoulder. "He looks like an actual bear rather than a man."

Wincing in silence at the comment, Joran let it slide, considering he was family and the fact that it was probably meant as a compliment.

"Enough," Maege said with an encouraging smile for Joran while patting his back.

Before Joran could get a word in, he felt the hand of Galbart usher him forward and he began to lead the boy towards the rest of the gathered lords, saying "come nephew, let us introduce you to some of our old friends and comrades."

Coming face to face with the group, Joran, still feeling nervous with all eyes on him, felt Galbart's arm remove itself from his shoulders as he moved around the group, gesturing as he put each name he spoke to a face.

"This white maned bastard here is Rickard Karstark, from Karhold," Galbart said placing a hand on an elderly man with a great white beard wearing the white sunburst of House Karstark across his chest.

"Pleasure, lad," Rickard said with a nod of his head.

"Medger Cerwyn."

"Hello."

"Robin Flint of Flint's Finger."

"How do you do."

"Torghen Flint from the Mountain Clans to the north."

"Welcome lad."

Galbart went down the line of lords present there, practically the whole North as far as Joran was concerned, seeing as there were so many of them. The last that he came to however was one that seemed, queer to put it nicely. He was a man who didn't have a beard and seemed, rather skinny and frail looking.

"And this, is Roose Bolton."

"It is an honor to finally meet you, Joran Mormont." Roose said, extending a hand out to the younger man.

Accepting it and realizing who this man was, Joran shook it and said, "it is a pleasure to finally meet you as well, Lord Bolton."

"I trust that my son is doing well in your care?"

The man's expression was so plain and unemotional that Joran couldn't tell if he was really concerned about Garrett or just stating obvious formalities. "Aye, he's currently my second in command of the Oathbound."

"Sounds like quite the position," Roose said after releasing Joran's hand. "I'm glad that he's kept himself busy while under the care of your house."

Garrett had been sent to be a ward for House Mormont three years ago, and being a bastard, he hadn't been well received by Dacey or Alysane, who believed that they had been insulted by Roose for sending one of his bastard twins to the Island. Joran however, being an outcast himself, if only to Dacey, had slowly found an easy friend in the bastard and they had been best friends for all three of those years. Practically a brother to him, Garrett had helped the young Mormont found the Oathbound when the misshaped man had come up with the idea for its formation.

"With me as a friend, there's plenty of work for us both," Joran said with a fond smile.

"I admire the work you two do on Bear Island," Roose said, a small smile appearing on his lips. "Your skirmishes against the Wildlings are a marvel unto themselves. I would much like to see Garrett and talk to him about his…adventures with you."

Finding it rather unsettling that a normal man would find what he and Garrett did to protect the island, and sate his inner monster, a marvel, Joran said the only polite thing he could think of without sounding…put off. "Thank you. I'm sure he'd like to see you too."

Before Roose could continue to unsettle Joran, Galbart called out, "ah, and here is this famous old geezer. Rodrik Cassel."

Looking away from Roose to a man that his uncle had grabbed around his shoulders, Joran beheld the most ridiculous looking white sideburns caressing the sides of the man's face.

"Master of arms and practically a Stark himself, ain't you Cassel," Galbart said jokingly as he patted the older man on his chest.

"Eh, no more than you lot, Lord Glover," Rodrik said before turning his gaze to Maege and Mormont. "Lord Eddard would like to speak to you and your nephew Lady Maege."

"Does he wish to say hello, I assume," Maege asked.

"Aye, that and more," Rodrik answered as Galbart removed his arm from his shoulders.

"Well let's not keep Ned waiting, come along Joran," Maege said as she moved to follow the gentlemen, Joran following her in turn, leaving Roose Bolton with the other lords.

…

Following Rodrik through Winterfell until he stopped before a fine wooden door, Joran and Maege watched as the man knocked before entering the doorway to announce their arrival to the man within.

"Lord Stark, the Lady Maege and her nephew Joran Mormont here as you requested."

"Thank you Rodrik, send them in if you please," a deep voice responded in turn from within the room.

Stepping away from the entryway so that the two Mormonts could enter, Rodrik stood at attention as Joran and Maege stepped into the solar of Eddard Stark.

Taking the site of the Warden of the North in, Joran saw that he was seated at a desk that was covered in parchment. A long-faced man with dark hair, a closely trimmed beard that showed some hints of grey, and grey eyes, that caused the young Mormont, when they settled on him, to feel as though their stare was as cold as ice. Despite the apparent look of age that he showed, Joran believed the Eddard to be a strong and healthy-looking man.

"Welcome, Lady Mormont," Eddard said in greeting as he replaced the feather pen in his hand into the inkwell on his desk. Standing, he then moved to the front of the furniture and took Maege into a kind hug. "It's good to see you."

"Same, Ned," Maege said with a smile before pulling back from her liege lord. Looking him up and down, she then inquired, "you look thinner than last time I saw you, Ned. Have you been eating enough?"

"Of course," Eddard answered. "Have to stay firm for Milady."

"Good to hear that you aren't neglecting those duties, Lord Stark," Maege said before playfully slapping Eddard on his right shoulder.

Turning from the Lady of Bear Island, Eddard's eyes fell back upon Joran and after a moment of studying him, asked Maege, "so this is your nephew? Joran was it?"

"Aye, the same," Maege answered.

"The son of Jorah Mormont?"

"Aye."

Staring Eddard Stark straight in the eye, a habit of his when meeting certain individuals, Joran extended his hand out to the Lord of Winterfell and said through his scarf, "it is a pleasure to finally meet you, Lord Stark."

"Pleasure's mine as well," Eddard said, firmly taking hold of Joran's hand and shaking it.

Wondering what his old man would think of his disfigured son shaking hands with the man who had wanted his head all those years ago, Joran said out loud, "I know you knew my father, Lord. And I don't blame you for trying to do your duty in the name of justice."

"You don't," Eddard asked, seemingly taken aback by Joran's straight forward words.

"He did something unlawful in the eyes of the Gods and men," Joran said. "And you did what was expected of you as Warden of the North. I'm just sorry my father disgraced himself by running away."

"I'm surprised to hear a son say so of his father," Eddard said, pulling his hand back. As though the cold words were enough o chill his fingers.

"He wasn't the best of men, my father," Joran said, crossing his hands in front of him in order to look more humbling to his liege. "But I hope that what good I've been able to do for the North by protecting Bear Island, reveals that I am not like him."

"You certainly aren't," Eddard said, giving Joran a look that said, _you could be worse. _"In fact, I hear that you go by another name? One that you've earned time and again in your fights."

"I do, Lord," Joran said. "I am called The Berserker."

"A good name for a warrior of House Mormont," Eddard said, keeping his eye on Joran as though he would jump out at any moment and bite him. "I am sorry though, for robbing you of a father."

"You didn't rob me, my Lord," Joran said, breaking his eye contact with Eddard to nod to his aunt beside him. "You gave others the opportunity to give a damn about me when he didn't. In a way, you did me a favor."

"Well, that's a good thing, considering the disfavor I have to give to my lords retainers while the King is here," Eddard said before looking at Maege. "I'm sorry that your guards and servants have to find lodgings in Wintertown."

"Don't worry Ned," Maege said nonchalantly. "They're grown men and women not babes, they can handle being away from me for a little while."

"Tell them that I appreciate their patience. With the Royal Family arriving sometime on the morrow, I can't afford to be short of space in the castle."

"I'll pass it on, and you be sure to pass on a hello to Cat for me," Maege said insistently.

"I will," Eddard said before looking to Rodrik. "Rodrik, please show these two to their rooms. I'm sure they've had a long journey and would like to get some rest."

"Eh, maybe just to get settled in before the big day," Maege said before giving a respectful nod to her lord. "I'll see you later Lord Stark."

Offering a curt nod of his own, Joran moved to follow his aunt out of the solar, when Eddard halted him with his name. "Joran."

Looking back to Eddard, Joran listened as the older man continued. "I know of your disfigurement and that you have strong inclinations to fight others. So, I would appreciate it if you did what you could to keep yourself in check while under my roof. Regardless of if they start the fight or not."

"I will do my best, Lord," Joran said, knowing that the older man would hold him to those words when the King arrived.

"That's all I ask, lad."

…

Leaving the solar and walking the halls of Winterfell to their rooms, Joran and Maege soon came to a stop with Rodrik indicating which rooms were theirs. Thanking the man before he left them, the Mormonts moved to enter their rooms, when the elder of the two said, "I wouldn't get comfortable yet, Joran."

"Why's that?"

"Because I need you to deliver our Lord's gratitude to our men in Wintertown. And check in on your…pet."

Realizing that he couldn't necessarily leave Osha with the house guards all night, and not expect her to try and escape, Joran conceded to do as Maege asked.

"Can I at least get a please?"

"Pretty _fucking_ please."

"Yeah, I can go do that."

"Thank you."

Once Maege had closed the door to her room which was further down the hallway, Joran turned with a grunt and began to walk back down the way that they had come. Taking his time though as he walked through the castle, the young Mormont's eyes scanned his surroundings, and found that he admired the architecture of the place. Stone walls bare, save for the occasional tapestry and torch, the place seemed to match the Starks perfectly. And, curiously, Joran found that he was comfortable in this place that was for the most part, foreign to him.

Making it to the great hall and approaching the exit, Joran, upon exiting the threshold, was met by an unexpected new face at the top of the stone steps. A wolf pup with silvery grey fur? _No, must be just a regular hound, _he thought. _One that has more wolf in him than others maybe._

Looking down at the creature as it gazed up curiously at him with yellow eyes in turn, Joran wondered what a wild animal such as this could be doing here in the castle. As unnerving as the appearance of the little beast was, he said in a kindly voice to it, "well hello there."

Keeping eye contact with the wolf-pup, Joran squatted down before it and offered an open palm to it so that it could take his scent in. While it sniffed vigorously and licked his hand, the man started to scratch behind its ears and asked, "where in the world did you come from, eh?"

"There you are!"

Raising his eyes to find a boy with auburn hair running up the stone steps towards him and the wolf, Joran watched as the child stop the minute his eyes fell on him.

"Is he yours?" Joran asked, trying to sound friendly with his deep voice.

"Yes, sir," the boy answered as the pup turned from Joran and walked back to him.

"He's quite the pet," Joran said as he stood up from his squatting position to tower over the boy. "What breed of hound is he?"

"He's a direwolf, sir," the boy answered while setting a hand atop the pup's head.

"Direwolf? Really." Joran was surprised at such a coincidence. A direwolf in Winterfell. Seemed that the Starks took their sigil quite literally. "That's quite amazing. How did you come by it?"

"We, em, found a litter of them on the side of the road," the boy answered. "Their mother had been killed by a stag and we took them in."

"A litter eh. That's fortunate and quite decent of you, lad."

"It was my father who allowed us to keep them, sir," the boy said as though to correct the direction of praise.

"Who is your father?"

"Lord Eddard, sir."

"Ah," Joran said upon hearing the name and realizing that this was one of the Stark children. "And what is your name lad?"

"My name's Brandon Stark, sir. But everyone here knows me as Bran."

"Well, Bran. Allow me to introduce myself." Joran extended a hand down to the youngster as he stepped towards him. "My name is Joran Mormont. And instead of sir, you can call me Joran."

After the boy took his hand and shook it, Joran asked him, "and what pray tell is the name of your direwolf?"

"I haven't given him a name yet," Bran answered sheepishly after releasing the older man's hand. "It's been difficult to figure one out now that everyone else has got names for theirs."

"Well, I wouldn't rush too fast to find one," Joran advised. "A good name takes time to come to anyone, be they a Maester or a fool. I'm sure one will come to you when the time is right."

"You think so," Bran asked, his eyes lighting up to the advice.

"I know so." Joran said confidently before remembering that he had to be somewhere. "It was good to meet you Bran, you'll have to excuse me I'm needed out in Wintertown. I do hope to see more of you and your pup while I'm here."

Extending his hand out again to the young man, Joran found that it was grabbed faster than the first by Bran who said, "it was a pleasure to meet you as well, si-I mean Joran. And I hope to see you around as well."

Walking past Brandon, who walked into the main hall, Joran descended the steps with a smile on his face behind his scarf, feeling happy that he had met the young Stark. But then again, he always felt good after meeting children, be they of a high or low birth. In fact, some of his Oathbound had been children who ran away from home or orphaned at one point and Joran had allowed them into his band in order to give them a home. Making his way out of the courtyard though, he started to remember how some of those same children had immediately changed their attitudes to him after he had showed them his face at one point or another. The looks of fear and pity were more of the common ones that came to Joran's mind, and he wondered which one young Bran would give him if he saw what was behind the mask.

Shaking those thoughts out of his mind, Joran set his mind to the task at hand and walked into Wintertown.

…

After inquiring to the guardsmen who had halted his party and told them of the arrangements for the party about where they had placed the members of his household staff, Joran walked in the direction of the inn that would be catering to all those who had come with the northern lords. Walking the muddy streets of the town, and passing the Brothel that had been passed on the way to the castle, allowing the catcalls to fade behind him, the young Mormont had finally made it to the place. The Cold Wind Inn as it was known, was a broad two-story building that seemed to be brimming with activity. Joran saw a multitude of people on the porch, in the doorway, and inside the establishment, all about their own businesses, and realized that finding those that had come with him and his aunt would be almost close to trying to find a needle in a haystack.

Usually prone to just burning the haystack and searching the ashes for the needle, Joran knew that he had to take a different approach to things and, keeping in mind that he had to be civilized while in Stark territory, he marched into the Inn, each step with purpose. Passing group after group of men and women as he delved further into the building, he approached what looked like the establishment's bar and what looked like the proprietor and asked him about his company, being blunt in explaining as to who he was and why it was his business to know. The man immediately polite at the mention of his name, gave Joran directions to the room and after thanking the man, made his way up to the second floor.

Finding the room with little difficulty, Joran moved to enter when he heard unsettling noises from within. Noise of a struggle, which caused him to push the door open with enough force to bang it into the adjacent wall. Coming upon the sight of the Mormont Guardsmen restraining his Wildling prisoner, with servants looking on in what appeared like fright, Joran's presence alone caused the scuffle to end.

"What is going on here?" Joran demanded in an even tone.

"Pardon, milord," one guardsman, an older gentleman by the name of Holt, said in apology. "We were getting settled in when this woman tried to attack one of the Lady Maege's maids."

"I was only trying to offer her a wash and some fresh clothes, milord," a girl, Sasha was her name, said in a pleading voice. "To be friendly."

"And I told you to mind your own business, bitch," Osha hissed as she struggled in the arms of the guardsman holding her.

"Wildling," Joran growled through his scarf. "Calm yourself before you make me do something that we will both come to regret."

Doing as she was told, Osha calmed in the guard's arms and Joran said to the young man, Wylar, "you can let her go."

"Yes, lord."

After the man had released Osha, Joran immediately marched up to her and, with full intention of knocking her out, tapped her on the temple with a heavy fist.

With the impact incapacitating the Wildling, Joran picked her up from the floor and after throwing her over his shoulders, he said to the guards, "you will have to forgive me men, for having to deal with this prisoner of mine. From here on, I'll deal with her. You all just get some rest."

"Thank you, lord."

"Just let us know if you need any more help with her."

Before leaving the room, Joran then said over one shoulder, "Lord Stark sends his apologies for the arrangements."

…

Making it back to his room, having been seen by mostly servants as he made it back into and through the castle, Joran kicked the door open and walking in, flung the unconscious Osha onto the temporary bed that had been made for the duration of his stay at Winterfell. Turning back to the door and closing it as fast as he possibly could without ripping it from its hinges, the young Mormont then proceeded to glower down at the troublesome creature. _What point of being respectful does this bitch not understand._

When he received no answer to his thoughts in any form, Joran just shook his head and proceeded to remove his cloak. Throwing the article of clothing atop a chair that was pushed into a small table beside the room's hearth, the young Mormont then moved to his belongings, which had so graciously been delivered to his room by the Stark household and set against a wall opposite the door, and immediately unstrapped his axe from his saddle bag. Joran knew he had given the woman fair warning and was now going to punish his prisoner the only way he knew how.

Raising his axe and about to deliver a quick blow to the unconscious Osha, Joran suddenly stopped himself. Looking upon the still form of the wildling, he saw that she appeared peaceful in her sleep, almost as though she was already dead. Slowly lowering his axe to his side, Joran moved towards the bed and putting a hand above Osha's mouth, checked to see if she was breathing.

Feeling air rise from her mouth and nose, Joran relaxed a little upon realizing that he hadn't killed Osha with his fist alone. _Not that it matters though._

Lifting his axe again to kill Osha, Joran, somehow, was stopped again when he actually looked at her sleeping form. She was defenseless. A still form that was unsuspecting of its demise.

He knew he should kill Osha for disobeying him, kill her for trying his patience, but Joran couldn't bring himself to drop his axe like so many times before. Because he felt as though it all seemed, unfair to kill when the receiving party of the axe stroke, didn't have any chance of defending themselves or at least, knowing that it was coming.

"Heh, damn it all," Joran huffed, lowering his axe and brushing his hair back with a free hand as he thought more and more about the topic at hand. If he killed the woman in Winterfell, everyone would catch wind of it and he would immediately be breaking his promise to Aunt Maege and his word to Eddard Stark to not cause any trouble. And, mores the pity, he wouldn't even be able to enjoy the killing. What was the point if he couldn't see the grim realization in his victims' eyes that somewhere down the line, they had made a mistake in crossing him?

"Hrrrgh." At a loss for the moment, Joran reigned it all in and moved back to the small desk. Then proceeding to pull the chair out, he put it against the door and moving back to his bags, produced his whetstone and taking a seat in front of the door, began sharpening his axe blade.

There were no windows to the room, and the only exit was the door he was sitting in front of, if she tried to make a run for it if he fell asleep in his seat, Joran knew that he'd handle her fast enough. Sharpening until he felt his eyes begin to drop, the young Mormont kept an eye open and drifted off to sleep, tense as a board.

…

_Transported from Winterfell, Joran found himself walking through a land shrouded in darkness. Pelted by wind and snow, the young Mormont soon found himself shivering, as he was wearing nothing but a plain shirt and pants. Then in that instant, Joran realized that he was experiencing the same dream that he had had days ago on Bear Island._

_ "…Joran."_

_ It was the voice from before, seemingly whispering Joran's name on the wind. And with it, he could've sworn he could hear the flap of a pair of wings._

_ "Hello!" Joran called out to the voice, hoping that whoever it belonged to would hear him this time. Why he cared, he didn't know._

_ "Joran…"_

_ "Is there anyone out there," Joran cried before the wind began to pick up, pushing him backwards. "If you are out there, come to me. Please!"_

_ Peering through the wind and snow that pelted him without mercy, Joran could've sworn he saw something. A piece of the darkness that was moving in strange rhythm. One that looked like that of a bird rather than a man._

What is that, _Joran thought before crying out again "Hello!"_

…

Startling awake, Joran with his scarf still on found himself back in Winterfell, in a chair in front of the door to his room, his axe on his lap, his whetstone upon the floor, fire burned to embers and Osha still fast asleep on his bed.

"By the gods," Joran whispered, realizing that his throat was sore and voice hoarse when he did. "What the hell did I see?"

Try as he might, Joran couldn't remember why his voice was cracked and sore. Did he yell at Osha? No, it wasn't that. Did he have an argument with Maege? Couldn't have, they were both in good spirits after talking with Eddard Stark. So why…?

Before he could answer his own question, Joran felt a knock on the door behind him and a voice call out to him. "Milord?"

Not recognizing the voice, Joran said gruffly, "yes? Who is it?"

"Brin, Milord."

"What do you want?"

"Just to see if your room needed tidying up, Lord."

Realizing that the woman was a servant, more notably a maid, Joran called back out to her, "there will be no need for your services, miss. Everything is still fairly tidy and whatever mess I have; I'll clean it up."

"Very well, Milord. Have a good morning."

Giving the woman enough time to walk away from his door and leave him to his privacy, Joran, knowing that she'd be back later when he wasn't present, moved over to the sleeping form of Osha and gave her foot a good kick. His action causing the wildling to wake up with a start, the northerner then proceeded to clamp a heavy hand upon her mouth before she could say a word. "Keep your voice low, woman," Joran warned her in a growl, all hint of hoarseness in his voice vanished, "or else I'll give you another love tap, you understand?"

When she nodded, Joran released her. Moving away from her then to his things, the young Mormont heard his prisoner give off a wince and silent moan. No doubt stiff from lying in the position he had left her in all night and feeling a headache from where he had struck her in order to knock her out.

"You call that a love tap?" Osha whispered.

"Could call it worse, but then I'd be lying," Joran said, his back still to her as he set his axe aside and rummaged through his belongings for more rope. "Not that you didn't deserve worse for yesterday for the way you behaved."

"Yesterday?" Osha said with a hint of surprise to her voice. "Been out that long, eh?"

"Aye," Joran said, finally producing another length of rope for his prisoner. "And you'll get worse next time."

"I was half expecting there to not be a next time after the lights went out," Osha said in what sounded like disbelief. "Why am I still alive?"

"The truth," Joran said as he approached the upright sitting Osha. "Because I figured that it wasn't your time."

"How'd you suppose that?"

Taking hold of one of her hands, Joran begin to connect the rope to it when he answered, "because, other than the fact that I'm in another lords house and not desiring to ruin a fine room by decorating its walls with your blood, I still figure I need to be fair with your life until I find out if you've been lying to me."

"Are you sure that's all, my Lord?"

Looking up at her from his work, Joran realized that she had a crooked smile upon her face and a glint in her eye that was rather…lustful.

"Or is it that you'd like to try something a little stronger than what your southern girls can offer." As she spoke, her dress covered legs began to spread apart, as if inviting Joran into them. Then, without an invitation, Osha's free hand began to move towards his legs.

Before she could touch him though, Joran quickly grabbed Osha's wrist in a vice grip that elicited a wince of pain from the wildling.

"Mark me, woman," Joran growled, his patience already growing thin with the day only barely starting. "I made a decision to spare your life again out of fairness to the truth of your words until you are proven a liar. Any other reason that may pop into that head of yours is nothing but a false fantasy that you created without purpose."

Releasing her, Joran added, "presume to try and coerce me again, and you're done."

"All right," Osha said as she shook out her wrist. "Was just trying to have some fun is all."

"You're a prisoner, you gave that up the minute you got caught."

"Can't blame a girl for trying, can you?"

"You'd be surprised." He knew he was.

Once he had tied both of her hands together at the wrists, Joran then tied her feet together at the ankles and finally, connected Osha's hands and feet together in the fashion of a hogtie, making it difficult for the woman to move. After he had completed his work, another servant had come to his room asking if he needed it cleaned. Instead of having the servant clean his room, Joran instead asked her to go fetch some guardsmen for him from the Cold Wind Inn, specifically Holt and Wylar, which she did without question.

His men arriving an hour later, Joran, somewhat cleaned up, dressed in a white shirt beneath a green tunic sporting a black bear upon his torso, black pants for his legs, bear skin cloak draped over his shoulders, a fresh scarf for his face, and his hair tied back into a ponytail, set them to guard his room. After apologizing for the inconvenience, he then asked them to check on Osha and help feed and water her until he got back. When they told him that they'd do it, the young Mormont told them that he would make sure they received meals and drinks for helping him in this regard, to which they thanked him in turn.

Leaving the two and going to his aunt's room to get the word of the day from her, Joran came to a stop before the door and gently knocked on it.

"Who is it?" Came Maege's voice from inside the room.

"Joran."

"Come in."

Entering the room, Joran beheld Mage Mormont sitting at a vanity, braiding her own hair.

"Glad to see that you're up, Joran," Maege said, looking between her nephew and her work in the mirror in front of her.

"Likewise," Joran said while noticing that his aunt was well beyond ready for the day. She was wearing a woolen dress dyed green with the head of their house's black bear over her left breast, and her black bear skin cloak was laying across her bed right next to her. "I was half expecting you to still be snoring away."

"Heh," Maege scoffed in mock offense before coming to the end of her braid and tying it off with a small hair tie.

"So," Joran began, moving further into the room. "any word on when the extinguished guests will arrive?"

"Rodrik dropped by earlier," Maege said before standing up from her seat and turning to look Joran over. "Passed on from Ned that word reached them that the Royal Family would be here by noon."

"That's good to know," Joran said with a nod. "Gives everyone else an ample amount of time to get ready for the occasion."

"Yeah," Maege said, her overlook of her nephew complete. "You look good. Would look better without the scarf though."

"It's the one you got me for my last name day," Joran said. It was a fine black scarf that he had packed away for the special occasion, when there was need for a clean touch rather than one that was…bloody.

"Oh," Maege said, looking surprised that she forgot. "Well, earlier comment retracted. It looks good on you. And I love what you've done with your hair."

"Best I could do without a mirror," Joran said honestly, while running a hand through his ponytail. "I've actually been thinking about cutting it down a bit."

"Really, that sounds like an interesting change."

"Yeah, for now though, best to keep up appearances."

"Speaking of appearances," Maege said, a look of concern on her face. "Are you ready? To see the King, I mean."

"Whenever he asks for me, I'll come. Simple as that," Joran said plainly.

"And, if he asks after your condition?"

"I'll maneuver my way around. With the King being who he is, I think I'll be able to manage well enough without losing it."

"I hope so, for our house's sake," Maege said before turning to her bed and scooping up her cloak. "So, shall we go and meet our host and prepare for the day?"

"I think we shall," Joran said, acting as the escort for his aunt from her room and down to the Main Hall where the other lords would be waiting.

…

Standing out in the courtyard of Winterfell, positioned near the back of the mass formation of northern lords and serfs, Joran and Maege Mormont patiently stood in wait for the grand arrival of the party of Royals. With everyone standing expectantly in order to show a kind of perfect presentation or picture for what everyone most likely thought of as their betters, the young Mormont felt a little ridiculous. Hands crossed in front of him, trying to put up a stoic front so as to not embarrass his house, Joran kept turning the notion over and over in his head as to what the real purpose was for such a visit north by the King and his family. And why he had to look like a groomed dog awaiting his master's arrival to the house.

In a broad sense, Joran didn't owe anything to the King, or any southerner for that matter. What had Robert done for him that would require such obedience from a northman like him. He fought a rebellion to overthrow the Mad King. Sure, from what he read on the matter in his early years with Maester Samn, Joran new that Aerys was a crazy tyrant through and through. But that reign would've ended regardless of Robert's actions. He fought against the treasonous Greyjoys, who would dare rise up against him in rebellion, calling for secession, and crushed them without a second thought. That didn't really change the few random Ironborn raids that Joran himself had personally crushed, each time a man from the Islands thought he could be salty enough to try and attack Bear Island. Where was the King while he protected the smallfolk of his home? Drinking and whoring most likely.

So, why even bother being loyal to or let alone respect a man who did less than shit?

In this crazy world, Joran didn't really know.

The sound of trumpets recalling him from his personal thoughts, Joran looked on as the Royal Party began to pour in through the gates and into the Winterfell courtyard.

At the head of the column were guards from both of the houses Baratheon and Lannister, given the differing sets of armor they wore and the banners that were held aloft by a few of them. After the guardsmen, rode in who Joran assumed to be the golden-haired Prince Joffrey Baratheon, who was escorted by a few of the Kingsguard and Sandor Clegane, or The Hound as he was better known. Able to mark the large man out by his helm, which resembled the head of a snarling dog with its fangs bared for the world, Joran wondered why a killer such as The Hound would even bother with such a visual representation of feral savagery as the party continued to flow in.

Next in came a wheelhouse that was decorated with mostly the red and gold colors of House Lannister, which Joran figured to house the Queen and her younger children, no doubt in the most comfortable manners possible for such a long trip. And finally, King Robert Baratheon, atop a black stallion and flanked by Kingsguard, rode into the courtyard. Upon his appearance, everyone within the space, knelt to him, including Joran, though rather slowly.

Keeping his head down and masked face as invisible as he could, Joran realized that, given his prior thoughts, he felt really uncomfortable kneeling.

Becoming at ease when the silent order to rise had been given and everyone began to stand back up, Joran watched from his place in the back as Robert and Eddard exchanged their fond greetings to each other. They seemed like brothers the way they smiled and spoke to one another, to which the young Mormont could find a mutual understanding on the feeling of comradery between shield brothers, men who had fought at each other's backs for years. He had that same relationship with a few of his own men, most prominent among them being Garrett Snow and Arthur Swift.

While the two men spoke though, Joran allowed his eyes to wander and found that they landed upon the Queen exiting her carriage with her children in tow.

_For an older woman, _Joran thought, _with the birthing of three pups under her belt, she looks as good as spring._

Noting her appearance and making a mental reminder to rub it into Arthur when he got back home, Joran's eyes then turned from the Queen towards who he assumed to be her twin, Jaime Lannister, as he removed his Kingsguard helm.

Having already figured the southern warrior to be pretty, Joran wondered if his blade was as good as everyone said it was whenever the Lion of Lannister was mentioned in conversation. Then, the young Mormont's thoughts wandered to what would happen if he were to test those seemingly fabled skills against his own. Joran had never lost and, as far as he was aware, neither had Jaime. It would be an interesting fight, but, in Joran's experience, the fighter who didn't play fair would always win.

And, considering his own strengths in a fight, Joran knew that his inner monster would be more than capable of giving the Lannister a run for his money.

Once the introductions between the King and the Stark family were concluded, Robert pulled Eddard away to go pay his respects to what, Joran didn't know. Then, after the two men left, the royal family were shown to their apartments to rest from their journey by the Stark Household, and then the Northern Lords were dismissed until the feast that was without a doubt, set for later that evening.

Given the fact that his legs were getting tired from standing around for such a long period of time, Joran was elated, even thankful, to have the chance to get away from all the pomp.

There were many things that came to mind when it came to Mormonts and standing. Joran doubted that standing in wait for people who didn't respect you was one of them.

…

Waiting at least an hour with Maege after the arrival of the Royal Party, talking with her and constantly promising that he'd behave, Joran soon became tired of just sitting and decided to get some fresh air in the castle's training yard. Going back to his room, he checked on Osha and satisfied that she was as comfortable as he cared for her to be traded his fine clothes for ones that would be more practical for the exercise he wanted to get in for the day, which consisted of a black gambeson with a wool shirt underneath and plain pants for his legs. Seeing no need to bring his axe along, Joran left it and made his way through the castle, his masked face drawing the eye of many southern soldiers as he did.

When he finally exited the keep and into the training yard, Joran, taking in a mouthful of fresh, cool northern air, looked around to make sure he was the only man there. Usually preferring to spar alone, given him being very prone to anger, the young Mormont felt a sinking feeling when he saw that he wasn't alone in the yard. There was a tall, black haired boy out there hitting a practice dummy with a training sword, rather vigorously.

Seeing that there was no way around it, considering he didn't want to go back into the castle after walking all the way through it to get to the yard, Joran conceded to simply avoiding any contact with the other boy while he took the edge off on a wooden dummy.

Finding one that was close to a wooden bench and a rack full of dull training swords, Joran, grabbing one such sword, began to warm up is limbs for the work he intended for the dummy.

After warming up, Joran faced the dummy and taking a stance, approached it and began to strike it. High, low, middle, arm, shoulder, head, rib, it was a constant flow of movement that he knew well from memory and constant application. Despite the feeling of restraint that he had had since arriving, Joran felt all the tenseness flow off of him and he became freer in those minutes than he had in the past few days.

But, before he could fully lose himself entirely to the calm flow of his own movements, that were his own rather than his true self's, Joran noticed that the black-haired boy was watching him. And when he realized he was caught staring, the boy started to walk away towards the castle.

"Oy," Joran called out through his scarf, causing the boy to stop and turn back to him. "Don't let me stop you from practicing lad."

"Forgive me, My Lord," the boy said, dipping his head down out of what looked like respect. "But, the Lady of Winterfell has commanded me to avoid the presence of all the guests."

"Is there something wrong with you, that she would tell you to do so?" Joran asked, looking the boy over again. "Some deformity that would offset a grown man?"

"No, Lord. I'm a bastard."

Realizing that this was another one of Eddard Stark's children that Maege had informed him about, this one being the bastard Jon Snow, Joran merely shrugged and said, "so what? Shouldn't stop a man from maintaining his form in my opinion. And as commendable as keeping to the wishes of the Lady Stark is, that shouldn't keep you from bettering yourself."

Having accepted a few notable bastards into the Oathbound in his time as its leader, Joran didn't really care if a man was a bastard or not, he was still a man and a man's merit was more important than his birth.

Seeming to have caused a dumbfounded look to come over Jon Snow, Joran merely shook his head and turning back to the dummy, he said, "never mind, do what you feel is right."

Engaging the dummy once again, Joran tried not to notice Jon's contemplation on the matter, but he couldn't help his eyes as they kept looking over to the bastard just standing in place, unsure what to do. Eventually, Snow made up his mind to move. But, instead of leaving the yard, or going back to his own dummy, Jon approached Joran as he pummeled the wooden dummy.

Stopping his blade work when Jon was too close for comfort, Joran turned to him and asked, "what?"

Looking as though he had just made a mistake, Jon started to apologize, "forgive me my Lord, I-."

"Don't call me that," Joran said sternly. "I'm no lord. And if the Gods are good, I'll never have to be."

"Sorry."

"Don't apologize to me either. I won't hold it against you for doing something that's naturally respectful to others."

"All right," Jon said, seeming to try and figure out a way to address the man in front of him.

Meeting the other man half way, Joran moved his training sword to his left hand and moving closer to Jon, asked, "do you know who I am?"

"You're Joran Mormont," Jon answered, seeming to know his name already.

"Nice to meet you, Jon Snow," Joran said, offering his right hand to the bastard.

When Jon took the hand, Joran gave it a simple shake and after releasing it said, "there, now you don't have to feel bad about using my actual name. And if you think that you'll offend me because you're a bastard, don't worry, my best friend is a bastard."

It was better to be a blunt and simple man when you meet others rather than one who merely beat around the bush trying to be too kind.

"You have a bastard for a friend?" Jon asked, looking bewildered at the notion of a bastard being friends with a trueborn son of a lord.

"Aye, that's what I said," Joran said with a nod. "All men and women, no matter if they have a last name or not, are welcome to my house, my warband, and to my friendship."

"Warband?"

"The Oahtbound," Joran answered. "And if you say you haven't heard of it, it's because it has only been around for a few years."

Nodding in understanding, Jon remembered that he had something to say and said it, "I was wondering if, I could spar with you."

Confused, Joran looked between Jon and the dummy, and when his eyes fell back on Jon, he asked, "aren't there plenty of others things out here you could hit?"

"Well, yes, but," Jon said, starting to stammer in nervousness. "no disrespect to you, but I want to test myself. And, from what I've heard, you're a great fighter and I think I could learn something from you."

"How long have you been learning to fight?"

"Ever since I was boy."

"Under who?"

"Rodrik Cassel."

"Then there is who you should learn from," Joran said, more for the boy's safety than his benefit. "You know the other name I go by?"

"Aye, I do." Jon answered.

"Then believe me when I tell you this. It's better to learn from someone who won't try and kill you without meaning to. You live a lot longer and you get more from it."

"I understand," Jon said, looking as though Joran just threw a cow pie into his face.

Not wanting to leave the matter at that though and leave the bastard downcast for trying, Joran put a hand on Jon's shoulder and said, "but, I could give you some advice to add on to what Ser Rodrik has already taught you."

The boy's face immediately lighting up, Joran nodded his head to the dummy he was just using and said, "stand in front of the dummy."

Moving aside so Jon could take his spot before the wooden man, Joran watched as Snow took a stance before the dummy.

"Stance looks good," Joran said. "Rodrik ever have you do endurance drills?"

"Everyday."

"Good. How long?"

"Forty-five minutes to an hour."

"Mhm," Joran said, walking around to the other side of Jon. "You ever try going for longer?"

"Sometimes, on my own."

"That's good. Instead of sometimes, I suggest you do it all the time. Make your session go a half hour longer than what it usually is. Work on the small things that Rodrik points out to you during the part of your session where he pays attention to you. Take your mistakes that he finds with a grain of salt and improve on them."

"All right."

"And after you take the time to amend those mistakes, use the rest of that time you take to go further and further build up your swings."

"My swings?"

"Aye, your swings. Hit every angle with at least fifty strokes of your blade, get your muscles even more acquainted with the movements, like they're natural. And don't worry about fluidity while you do these, that comes when you apply them to a sparring partner, which you then apply to a fight."

"All right."

"And as you keep improving, the movements becoming easier, increase the amount of time you apply to correcting what experienced teachers tell you that needs work and increase the volume of strokes to make those muscles stronger."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

"It sounds so simple," Jon said, seeming to not believe Joran.

"Believe me, it sounds easy now, but when you apply it, you will realize that it isn't." Joran said this having applied this training method to a part of his daily routine, and knew that it worked. Where he was at currently, he could go for four hours striking nothing but a dummy before he became exhausted.

"When should I start," Jon asked.

"Now, give me fifty. Hard as you can on the dummy."

Jon did as he was told, and Joran counted the strikes.

After hitting the dummy about forty times, Jon, sweating profusely from the exertion and panting heavily, halted his attacks and allowed his sword point to drop into the dirt.

Joran, figuring the other man's arms felt like they were about to fall off, did not reprimand him for letting his guard down and said, "that was pretty good for your first time doing this exercise. I think you should take a quick breather though."

"No, I can keep going," Jon said, even though he didn't look like he could pick the sword back up.

"It'll be alright if you stop. Trust me." Joran said, knowing full well the toll that training like this could take on a man's body.

Taking the other man's advice, Jon nodded and moving over to the nearby bench, took a seat.

Joran, not desiring to let the dummy have a break, took Jon's place before the wooden man. And, taking his own stance, focused on his unmoving opponent and attacked it.

Going faster than Jon had when he had first began striking the dummy, Joran was relentless in his sword strokes. Offering it everything he had, each blow of the dull steel longsword he landed sent vibrations through his arms that transferred to his shoulders and upper back. Well acquainted with the sensations of pain, Joran, enjoying them, never let up in his assault force or speed. And, before he could reach his own fifty strikes, his blows started to shatter the various parts of the dummy. Its arms were cloven from the wooden body. Then off came its wooden head. And finally, Joran's strikes chopped the thick wooden pole that was left, down to nothing but a stump about as tall as his waist.

His arms, shoulders, back, and lungs burning from the intense assault, Joran maintained his intense focus and kept his berserk self from coming forth from the rush the exercise gave him. And instead of allowing his training sword to drop to the dirt, he shouldered it while maintaining his grip upon the hilt, before turning to an onlooking Jon.

Noticing the other man's shocked expression, Joran said casually, "looks like I broke him."

"I'll say," Jon managed to reply. "How did you-."

"I trained," Joran answered. "I kept hitting the dummy as hard as I could until my arms felt like they would fall off, in whatever free time I had available to me. And, I corrected any mistakes that others may have found in my form. The first method was how I was able to break a wooden man. The second, well, that helped me become a strong fighter."

"Woah."

Moving over to the bench, Joran sat down next to Jon and allowed himself a little rest before making a decision of still going with his personal training or just calling it and go back to waiting for the party to start.

"Could I get that strong?" Jon asked Joran.

"Aye. Any man could get that strong," Joran answered while looking at Jon. "They just have to want to become that strong. Maintain that focused mindset and you'll be where I'm at in no time."

"Well, isn't this a surprise."

Turning from Jon to look back over to the keep, Joran beheld Rodrik Cassel walking into the yard. And he wasn't alone.

As the group came closer, Joran discerned at least one familiar face among them to be that of Bran Stark. The few others he didn't know, and others that he could put names to, having seen them earlier that day, and they were Joffrey Baratheon, Tommen Baratheon, and Sandor Clegane without his snarling hound helm. The three other figures with the group consisted of a small boy who was younger than Bran but shared some resemblance to him, and two older boys who looked to be around Jon Snow's age. Putting two and two together, Joran figured the young lad to be Rickon Stark, the youngest of the Stark children, Rob Stark, the first trueborn son to Eddard, and the other lad to be the family's ward, Theon Greyjoy.

"Hello Joran," Bran Stark called out from next to the old master at arms.

Seeing the young boy wave at him, Joran waved back in greeting and said, "hello Bran, it is nice to see you again."

"I see you have become acquainted with a few of my charges, master Joran," Rodrik said as the group came closer. And, upon noticing the now stump of a dummy, the old man remarked, "and it appears you've been keeping yourself busy."

"Just trying to keep myself entertained before the party starts is all, Rodrik," Joran said as he stood up from the bench. "But I think I've had enough to last me for a time. I'll leave you to manage your charges without any disturbance on my part."

"I appreciate that," Rodrik said with a grateful nod.

"But Joran, can't you stay, at least for a moment to watch us all spar?" Bran begged expectantly.

"Sorry Bran," Joran said while taking in the others of the group. Or, at least those who would want trouble with him. The first among those being Theon Greyjoy, who without a doubt knew Joran's reputation, and might stir the pot trying to prove himself better than the young Mormont. Second, though perhaps not by his own desire, was the Hound. If Joran didn't take his leave fast enough, Joffrey, his reputation preceding him, may order Clegane to put on a show for him and fight The Berserker. So, in order to avoid such drama, the young Mormont resigned to leave without incident. "But I'm tired and will need a rest before the party starts later."

"Oh, all right," Bran said, his shoulders sagging in defeat.

Jon, following Joran's lead and not desiring to embarrass House Stark by being present among the highborn children, also rose and walked with the young Mormont back to the castle. Every step he took though, Joran could feel the eyes of the others on his back. And, as far as he knew, they were either old enough to know his reputation and be wary, or didn't know and wondered why he wore a mask. Just like everyone else did, which didn't bother Joran in the slightest. Or, at least that's what he told himself.

…

Once the sun had finally set over the horizon in The North, the feast held in honor of the Royal Family had begun. The Great Hall of Winterfell was full of many tables that sat all who had been invited to the castle to receive King Robert respectfully. All through the hall and even beyond in the lesser corridors of the castle, laughter and merriment could be heard as the guests of House Stark ate and drank their fill happily. Couples danced to the sound of music played by the local minstrels, the men bragged and boasted of their achievements over the past year while women and girls traded their gossip and lies that were heard only in a day.

In Joran's mind, this was quite the party indeed.

Having vacated his seat at the lower tables beside his Aunt Maege after the last course of the extravagant dinner had been served, Joran, his legs now thoroughly stretched, leaned against a pillar of stone with his arms crossed. Looking over the proceedings, his form like one of the many shadows cast about the stone hall from the flickering torch and candlelight from the walls and chandeliers of the ceiling, the young Mormont's eyes were like that of a caged animal looking for an escape from the chaos in the room. As much as everyone else was having fun, Joran was not, and until the chaos ended, he was to remain there, as per the wishes of his aunt with the King's desire to meet him in mind.

With the thought of the King come to mind, Joran looked across the way to Robert and found that, while wearing his golden crown and clothes made of the finest materials, he was among the lower tables of the gathering. Having been unable to see the man earlier when the Royal procession had first arrived, Mormont took the sight of the once famed warrior in.

Although his black hair and great beard did not appear to show any signs of grey in it to note his age, Robert appeared to be a very heavy-set man of fat, rather than a giant built of enough muscle to throw around a massive Warhammer. No doubt, his muscles had given way to fat and flab over the course of time with no use, as the King was wanting those days to only eat, drink, and, from what was known, fuck at his leisure. And inspecting the man, Joran was disappointed that nothing seemed to remain of the warrior, and he was rather amazed at the same time that Robert could fit into any article of clothing given his girth.

_But then again, when you can afford the best seamsters in the Seven Kingdoms, I suppose anything is possible, _Joran thought scornfully before watching as King Robert Baratheon pulled a serving woman onto his lap and proceed to bury his hairy face into her cleavage. Which, the woman didn't seem to mind in the slightest.

"I swear," came a voice from Joran's left that almost made him jump. "The King's grown since I saw him last."

Turning to the sound of the familiar voice, Joran put it to a face and beheld Benjen Stark standing not a few feet from him, wearing his black Night's Watch clothing and sporting a black beard that gave his wolfish features a more pronounced appearance.

"As I live and breathe," Joran said through his scarf. "Benjen, how are you?"

"I'm still alive, that's a start," Benjen said as Joran pulled him into a hearty hug. And when he pulled away, he looked the younger man over and said, "Gods, lad. You seem to have grown three times the size you were last I saw you."

"Just like the King I'd wager," Joran said jokingly, causing Benjen to laugh. "Aye, it's been no thanks to my aunt's methods of feeding her sleuth of cubs," Joran said, patting his stomach comically.

"I bet," Benjen said with a fond nod. "How have you been?"

"Well," Joran answered before returning to leaning against the pillar. "Good to say the least of it."

"I've been hearing the name you've been making for yourself on Bear Island, it's so big it's reached all the way to Castle Black," Benjen said over the din of music and laughter. "Fighting Ironborn and Wildlings, practically doing the Night's Watch's job for us by keeping all those buggers who sail past the Shadow Tower off the mainland, in regards to the latter."

"Only the ones who've been stupid or desperate enough to land on my island," Joran said in response to the Stark's words.

"And, how's your, _condition, _been treating you," Benjen asked, almost cautiously.

"For one, I've learned how to better keep it under control now," Joran answered. "Been finding it helpful to use whenever battle is afoot. Only problem I've had is the few times I can't come back from it. Which hasn't been too often an occurrence mind you."

"I'm impressed," Benjen said. "Considering what I saw you do the last time we were in the same room together, you sound to have come a long way since that long night making sure you didn't break out and start killing everyone."

"Well, I owe it all to my family, Benjen," Joran said, a small smile forming underneath his mask. "They gave me enough motivation to learn to control that part of me and put it to good use."

"And I'm happy to see that you've grown into a fine man, Joran," Benjen said, putting a kind hand onto the younger man's shoulder. "And for what it's worth, Jeor is proud too."

As Benjen removed his hand from his shoulder to look out across the hall at the merriment, Joran thought back to when he had first met the older man.

It had been back when Joran had almost tried to kill Dacey after a sparring match that she instigated. When she had been bleeding and Maester Lowther had been trying his hardest to keep her alive, the young deformed boy that he had once been, so ashamed of what he had done, ran away from the Keep and had escaped to the mainland with full intentions of joining his grandfather at Castle Black and take the Black. Upon getting there though, Jeor had questioned Joran and told him that he couldn't allow the boy to join the Night's Watch. His grandfather's desire to give him a chance at life away from lifelong servitude had sparked an anger in the boy then, because he believed that he didn't deserve to be out in the world. Especially if he only hurt people. So enraged, Joran had attacked Jeor with his fists rather than a weapon, and had only stopped when he was restrained by brothers of the Watch. Chained up in his room, the young Mormont was forced to calm down over night, and when his grandfather spoke to him again, he was convinced to leave Castle Black and go back home. And Joran did, once he had apologized to Jeor and Benjen for causing so much trouble for them.

Then, upon remembering his grandfather, Joran brought up the topic of his journey north with the Black Brother.

"Actually, now that you mention him, I have been planning on heading up north to Castle Black."

"Is that so," Benjen said in surprise. "I thought you would've learned the first time you tried joining the Watch to avoid it lad?"

"You mistake me, Benjen," Joran said in order to put the Ranger's mind at ease. "I'm not fixing to take the Black. I actually need to talk to Jeor about something that's come up back home."

"Oh, and what might that be," Benjen asked.

"I've come into some information," Joran answered. "Information that will keep me up at night if I don't hear its authenticity from Jeor himself."

"Perhaps I can put your mind at ease," Benjen said. "Keep you from wasting a trip north to the Wall only to go all the way back to Bear Island."

"I appreciate the help Benjen, but I'll need to find out from Jeor," Joran said in earnest.

"Well let me at least try to answer before you right me off, lad. Do you a favor," Benjen said, not taking no for an answer.

"All right," Joran relented. "I've heard that the Wildlings have a new King Beyond the Wall. A Mance Rayder, who was a brother of the Watch. Is that true?"

"Aye, it is," Benjen calmly answered with a nod of his head. "Mance was one of ours before he left us to join the Wildling Clans, considering he was one born of their blood. He is now their king as it would seem, and my gut tells me he won't be wasting any time gathering an army to him to try and cross the Wall."

Having the same feeling, Joran kept the feeling to himself and presented another question to the man. "There's also something else, Benjen. There have been reports of the dead rising beyond the Wall. Of White Walkers being seen in the dark forests beyond."

"And where'd these reports come from?"

Feeling no reason to lie to Benjen, Joran answered him plainly. "A raiding party came to Bear Island a week back. Me and my lads took care of most of them. One of them though thought to be useful and she spilt her guts out about Mance and the dead rising."

"For a wildling facing the executioner, she was honest," Benjen said before reluctantly going on. "Things have been a right mess up north. From the Shadow Tower to Eastwatch by the Sea, lads have been disappearing in all areas north of the Wall. I won't say it was Others who did it, but I've been unable to find the cause of it, and as far as I'm concerned, whether it is the Wildlings or something worse, either way it isn't good."

"Seems like grim work up there," Joran said. "Maybe I could be of some service while I'm visiting my grandfather. Give you an extra set of eyes to go looking for monsters."

"As much as I would appreciate that, I'd rather not put you in harms way. I know you could handle yourself, but up there it's a different kind of war. And as a favor to your grandfather, I'd handle the business myself instead of mixing you up into it."

"I suppose you're right," Joran appreciated the thought of Benjen caring, he just didn't appreciate the lack of confidence.

Benjen then patted Joran's shoulder and said with a small smile, "talk of evil business aside, it'll be good for the Old Bear to see you again. Give his heart some warmth in the coldness of Castle Black."

Leaving the subject alone, Joran said, "I know it will. I can't wait to see him."

"I know the feeling," Benjen said, gesturing with an open hand to where Eddard Stark was standing across the hall, looking upon the festivities. "I best go over and say hello to Neddy over there. Looks like a bear in a trap."

"Go on, I'm sure he'll be happy to see you."

"I'll be seeing you lad," Benjen said before moving on to his brother and leaving Joran alone to brood.

"Where's that ugly bastard Mormont at!"

Forced back to the party at the bellow of his name from the center of the hall, Joran turned to the source and found the King sitting beside Greatjon Umber and Rickard Karstark. With one arm around the servant he had been fondling earlier and the other gripping a mug of beer in his hand, the older man waved the mug around, sloshing beer onto the floor, inviting the masked man over to join him when his eyes landed on him.

"Get over here, boy!"

Looking over to the place at the lower tables where his aunt was sitting, Joran sought Maege's help in placating the bad situation he knew would come by being around a drunk old man like Robert. But she only shrugged in answer to his silent plea, unable to do much considering the fact that a king was higher in authority than a lord. So, taking the situation with a grain of salt, or five, and bracing himself, Joran moved across the crowded floor to where Robert was sitting, everyone in his way quickly clearing out of his path.

Coming to stand before the King, Joran, smelling the alcohol in the air around the drunk man, crossed his hands in front of him and knelt down before Robert and said, "your Grace."

"Get up, lad. I didn't call you over here to look at you kneel in front of me," Robert said, waving his mug up and down to gesture the younger man to rise, spilling more wine in the process.

Standing back up, Joran crossed his hands in front of him and remained silent, waiting for the King to say what he wanted to so he could then leave.

"I hear from Umber and Karstark here…that when it comes to fighting nowadays…you're the man north of the Neck to talk to," Robert said through his beard, his voice slurred from the amount of drink in his system.

Directing brief glances to the Greatjon and Rickard, men who he had only just made acquaintances with yesterday, Joran understood that they would know about his reputation. That they would talk about him behind his back, while not surprising, was rather strange. Joran didn't think that his reputation was all that entertaining a topic.

"I suppose they wouldn't be wrong to presume as much, your Grace."

"Heh," Robert looked Joran up and down with a gaze that almost felt familiar to the younger man: a predator judging its prey. "I also hear that you're an ugly son of a bitch. People say that you're as hairy as a bear, have teeth like one, and the face of one as well."

Wondering what Robert was playing at, Joran, not taking the bate to snap too quickly, said in agreement, "what you've heard is true, your Grace. I am disfigured and seen as abnormal to others."

"I would like to see such a face."

"My face isn't one to be witnessed in person, your Grace," Joran said, immediately trying to play defense while appearing compliant. "Every time someone looks at me without my mask on, it causes them to get sick. And since you have been drinking-."

"You saying I got a weak stomach for drink, boy?" Robert demanded.

Noting the anger in the older man's voice, Joran quickly said, "no, your Grace. I'm just saying that I wouldn't want to unsettle you."

"I bet I've seen a lot of things uglier than your face, boy," Robert growled, growing rather impatient with the younger man. "Now, you take off that scarf, or I'll have Clegane come over here and take it off for me."

Turning his gaze towards the large armored man at the back of the hall, Joran saw that Sandor Clegane, burned face in broad view of everyone, stood resolute as a statue. Or a dog waiting for its master's order to strike.

Not wanting to disrupt the party, Joran turned back to the king and knew that, in order to keep his promise and keep things civil, he had to take off his mask.

"All right," Joran said plainly before raising his hands to untie his scarf. Reaching up to the back of his neck, he started undoing the knot he had tied earlier that day, easily noticing the eyes of the king and two lords on him, rather expectantly. Which, given what they've heard, Joran wasn't surprised that they were.

Feeling the knot loosen and the long piece of wool begin to fall from his face, Joran took hold of the scarf in a tight fist and looking the King in the eye, he waited. Waited for the laughter, waited for the horror, or at most, an expression of terror.

What he got wasn't surprising.

King Robert Baratheon, laughed at him.

"So, this is what all the fuss is about? He…looks like any other hairy bastard with…a split lip. Ha!"

Breathing heavily through his nose, Joran, his eyes switching between the now somber Umber and Karstark, who kept their mouths shut, the barmaid, who seemed shocked beyond all belief, and the King, who was beside himself with giggles, kept composed and calm. He knew that he couldn't lose his mind, not here, not now, he couldn't let the beast out. If he did, a lot of people would die until he was stopped, and he couldn't let that happen. So, Joran let Robert have his laugh and he refused to look around the room to anyone else looking at him, he refused to see anymore expressions that would set him off.

Robert's laughter dying down, Joran, holding steady, said, "if that'll be all, your Grace, I think that-."

"Keep it off," Robert said before setting his mug on the table top behind him and pouring a fresh one. When the cup was full, he picked it up and offered it to Joran. "Drink with me."

"I don't think that is wise-."

"Drink, your…King commands it."

Seeing no way out for him, Joran took the cup from the King and took a sip. Having never drank before, he had always made a point to avoid anything that would make him lose his focus. Tasting the alcohol now, Joran immediately disliked the sour concoction, but managed to not spit it out.

"Have a seat," Robert said before tapping the maid on her rump and telling her to pull up a chair for Joran.

Sitting before Robert, beside the Greatjon and Rickard, Joran took another sip of what he figured to be wine and waited for the King to continue with his babble.

"Tell me, Mormont…or Joran. You don't mind if I call you Joran, do you?"

"Doesn't really matter does it," Joran answered, feeling miserable with his face out for everyone to look at, even though he refused to look around at all the eyes.

"Well, Joran," Robert went on, ignoring the sullen man before him. "Tell me about your work."

"My, work?"

"Aye, your work," Robert said, while raising his cup to be refilled by the maid. "Must be taxing, defending the realm from wildlings and pirates."

"Ah," Joran said, realizing the king wanted to know about the work he specifically excelled in. "It is indeed taxing, to say the least about it."

"Then say more," Robert said before sipping from his cup.

"What would you like to know, your Grace," Joran asked.

Lowering his cup from his face, Robert swallowed and said, "how's about we start with something simple. When was your first time?"

"My first time?"

"First time you killed a man, boy."

Wanting nothing more than to throw his cup of wine into Robert's face for asking such a thing, Joran kept his composure and taking a sip of his drink, he looked at the monarch with eyes of iron and answered him.

"I was four and ten. My aunt, the Lady Maege, decided that it was high time I got acquainted with Bear Island proper and took me with her on a trip across the island. It was part patrol for brigands, part visit to each village and hamlet under our protection." Joran didn't mention that with each village they had come to, he had been rather frightened to be seen by other folk, even though at the time they held his aunt in high regards so they wouldn't talk bad about him while they were there.

"It was after the third, that we found ourselves traversing through a denser part of the island. The road was flanked on both sides by and army of trees it seemed then. Wasn't until we were well in when we found out we weren't alone." Joran took a long sip from his wine cup, hoping that the drink would numb any sudden excitement he may get from the memory of the first time he let everything wash out.

Removing the cup from his lips, he returned his eyes to the King, who was waiting expectantly with a glare of anticipation, and Joran continued. "The guardsmen we had with us, Jason and Tom were their names, were the first to go. Felled by arrows they were. Next thing I know, I'm bucked from my pony, I hear men shouting from the trees, feet running, and Maege roaring like a madwoman. When I look up from where I had fallen on the ground, I see her fighting off three men at a time, while a fourth grabbed me by the scruff of my neck and hauled me to my feet.

"His arm around my neck and a knife at my cheek, he warned her that he would kill me if she didn't stop. Reluctantly, Maege did, and I watched as the other men began to beat her down into the dirt with their fists and clubs."

Feeling his blood race, Joran took another sip of wine. "I couldn't stand watching them hurt her. I struggled and writhed in the man's grip. Got free for a moment, but the man gave me the back of his hand, put me flat on my back.

"And after he struck me, something inside me…woke up."

The images of that day flashed through his mind like a rolling storm. "I rushed to my feet and leapt at my captor before he could bring his knife to bear to protect himself. Took hold of him and sank my teeth into his throat fast as I pleased." Joran said this with a smile to show off his long canines to his King in an evil grin that was half his, half The Berserker's. "He screamed, and screamed some more when I tore the patch of meet in my mouth from his neck. The man fell down, and without too much thought, I grabbed his knife and rushed to the onlooking bandits to save Maege.

"They were strong, they were big, they had clubs in their hands and knives at their belts. But I was possessed by something fierce. One of them stepped before the others, swung his club in a hard-downward strike to bash my brains out. I moved without meaning to, out of the way and with a simple hop and thrust, I plunged the knife I had in and out of his exposed throat before he could know what had happened. Almost felt like it was a casual thing.

"When the next one came, he didn't have a mind to knock me out no, he went straight for the kill, swinging his club and knife at me like his life depended on it, which at that point, it did. But I was a small, moving target. I didn't know how I was doing it, but I dodged everyone of his swings and every opening he had, I took with a quick peck of the knife in my hand. Legs, body, arms, every opening. He got tired eventually, bleeding everywhere, and I ended him.

"Turning to the last, who was struggling with Maege at this point, I ran up behind him and I leapt upon his back and stabbed him over and over again." As Joran recalled, he thought of himself like a little demon, screaming and laughing with each downward swing of his arm and each speckle of blood that made it to his face.

"He fell down on top of me. Maege got the dead man off of me and we rode back to the hamlet we had come from." Joran didn't mention how he had almost tried to punch the lights out of his aunt when she came into his view. And thinking back on it, if the knife hadn't been stuck in the bones of the bandit, he probably would've tried knifing her too. Luckily though, it was only his hands and he got tired out so fast, the rage taking its toll, Maege had to throw his sleeping form over his pony to get him back to safety.

"By the Gods," Rickard Karstark said, his eyes wide with shock.

"Damn," Greatjon Umber growled, looking at Joran with eyes hard as stone.

"You ever find out who they were," Robert asked, his mouth agape and his eyes giving Joran a hint of something he had never thought he would get from the old bastard. Respect.

"Aye," Joran said, turning his eyes away from the older men to look down into the wine in his cup. Looking at his hairy, disfigured face, he said, "they were farmers and fishermen. Desiring to only ransom us for money so they could get food for their families. And I gave them more than they bargained for." It was a lie, but Joran figured there'd be no reason in talking about how he and Maege had found out that those same men were the brothers and fathers of men that his father Jorah had sold into slavery only a year before they thought to try and get their revenge. He had enough trouble talking about himself, he didn't want to have Jorah come up and have to talk about him too. So, with that, Joran, at the end of his rope, downed the rest of his wine, stood up and walked out of the Great Hall, scarf in one hand and empty cup in the other.

…

**Whew, my goodness, this chapter was long and needed. If this chapter seemed like Joran was getting too self-conscious about himself, I don't care because it gives him some depth as a character. Going into this chapter I always used to wonder back when I was brainstorming the rewrite how Joran would fair if he had been summoned to Winterfell to receive the King, I wanted to give him interactions with a few members of the Stark Household, specifically Bran and Jon, I did want to give some interaction with Joffrey, Theon, and Sandor, but figured I shouldn't because it would have led to unnecessary filler material that in the end I could just use later on, so don't worry, I plan on Joran going head to head with at least two of these characters and you can all already figure who they are. Thank you for your patience, give me some feedback, positive will immediately be accepted, ****constructive criticism**** will be mightily appreciated, and any negative comments I will just ignore. You can have your own opinions, I just won't care about them if they try to bring me down. Good night my fellow Fanficiton readers and writers until next time.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Hello friends, fans and critics, and welcome back to Blood in the South. Happy to see you supporters of the north giving reviews and you newcomers liking this work. With any luck from the Old Gods, I'll keep this going strong and improving as I do. Enjoy this next chapter and remember, except Joran, I OWN NOTHING! **

Book 1: Blood in the South

Chapter 4: Surprises

Joran

Opening his eyes, Joran, his head feeling like there was a blacksmith in it, beating away at his anvil with a hammer, inspected his surroundings. It was midday, he was propped up against the trunk of a tree in an unfamiliar forest. Slowly rising up from his position, using the trunk to support him and climb up from the ground, Joran shook his body free of the evening and morning dew before taking a moment to take a proper look around.

Capable of seeing Winterfell from where he was standing, Joran figured he must have walked a good ways into the woodland surrounding the castle before finding himself a quiet place to sleep. And, to his relief, it appeared as though he hadn't killed anything in his drunken stupor on his way to the spot. Unluckily for him though, Joran was stiff from sleeping against a tree and cold from being out in one of the cold evenings The North was known for unprotected.

Figuring he might as well start warming himself up by walking back to Winterfell, Joran had started his trek back to the castle. Driven to move quickly through the brush at the prospect of a warm fire, the northman soon emerged from the treeline to come face to face with the stone walls of the fortress. Looking up to the sky to check the position of the sun through the grey clouds, Joran figured that he was at the north eastern portion of Winterfell. Guessing that the North Gate was the closest entrance, he started following the wall northwards.

Before he had made it five strides however, Joran heard something behind him. Looking over his shoulder towards the movement, he beheld a familiar sight. A silver furred direwolf pup.

Moving back the way he had come towards the pup, Joran scanned his surroundings to try and find sight of the pup's owner, Bran. Strangely enough, the lad was nowhere to be found, and that unsettled the young Mormont somewhat.

"Hey there boy," Joran called out to the pup.

Turning to the sound of his voice, the pup barked and ran towards him.

Kneeling down to meet the little animal, Joran petted it and as it anxiously licked his hand, he checked again to see if Bran was nearby. When he didn't see anyone again, he looked down to the pup and asked him, "where's your friend, eh?"

Speeding away from him to where it had been before, the pup looked up, then back at Joran and barked, then back up to the sky.

Moving over to the little direwolf, Joran followed its eyes to where it was looking. What it was looking at was an old tower that looked like it had seen too many winters, and probably should've fallen down by now, but it was still standing. Appearing as defiant as any other northman against the cold of the region.

Finding the sight rather unremarkable, Joran soon figured out why the direwolf was so interested in it. There was a window, near the top of the tower, and in it, stood what looked to be Bran Stark.

"What's he doing," Joran said to himself as he noticed that the boy's body language looked as though he was holding on to the sides of the window, in a very tense position. Then, looking down to the pup, he asked it, "lad must be quite the climber to get all the way up there, huh."

The pup barked again and whined anxiously in response.

Turning his attention back upwards to the top of the tower, Joran then saw a shape falling down towards him. Barely able to react in time, he lifted his arms to catch the boy, only, when the body of Bran Stark hit him, he hit Mormont hard in the chest, which knocked him to the ground where he then hit his head hard, leading him to know only darkness.

…

_His vision changing from black to white, Joran found himself alone and face down in snow. Shaking his head to try and get the stuff out of his eyes and hair, he pushed himself up to his feet. Looking around him, Joran found himself once again in the never-ending snowstorm that had plagued been plaguing his dreams._

_ The cold winds biting into him, Joran folded his arms against his torso in an attempt to conceal some of his body heat. Regardless of this attempt though, he still shivered miserably._

_ "Why can't I ever fucking come here in a coat or something," Joran asked himself as he took in his garb of a plain shirt, now wet, and pants, also wet. Forcing himself to trudge barefoot through the tundra without a clue as to where he was going, the young Mormont knew that he had to keep moving if he wanted to survive this nightmare. _

_ Considering it uncanny that he should be experiencing the same dream two days in a row, Joran wondered which Gods he'd pissed off to keep on experiencing such a wintery hell such as this._

_ Before he could start guessing answers however, Joran came to hear the all too familiar sound of a voice on the wind._

_ "Joran…"_

_ Checking his surroundings and failing to find where the speaker of his name was, Joran shouted into the wind, "all right you son of a bitch, come out where I can see you. I am tired of playing these fucking games!"_

_ "Joran."_

_ Hearing the voice more clearly now, Joran turned towards it and saw a small shadow flapping towards him through the storm._

_ Believing that the thing struggling towards him was the speaker he had been trying so hard to find, Joran, crazy as it seemed to him, smiled evilly. "There you are."_

_ Then, gripped with a madness that only he knew of, Joran charged through the wind and snow towards the thing. Whether he was going to save it or strangle it, he didn't know. Joran just had to get to it._

_ "Joran!"_

…

"Joran?"

"Hrrgh!" Joran startled awake, his hands flailing through the air for reasons he didn't know, only to find that he was only reaching up towards the stone ceiling of a room. Laying his arms back down, he looked around to find that he was back inside Winterfell, in his aunt Maege's room of all places, with the room's occupant sitting beside him in a chair. Before Joran could wonder how or why he was there, the memories of what had happened to him flooded back into his skull like a river.

"Bran? Bran!" Joran said loudly before attempting to rise.

"Calm down, calm down, boy." Maege said, rising from her seat to lay a calming hand on her nephew before he could get very far out of the bed.

"Where is the boy? Is he alright?" Joran asked.

"Yes, yes, he's perfectly fine no thanks to you, now lay down before you hurt your head some more."

"I have to…er." In his attempt to get up, Joran felt a flash of pain through his skull that rendered him helpless to the will of his aunt. Laying back down, he looked at Maege and, rather than continue to protest his need to see how Bran was, instead asked, "how long have I been out?"

"A day and a night, so not too long," Maege answered before returning to her chair.

"That long?"

"Aye."

"And you've been with me the entire time?"

"You know I have, Joran."

Offering his aunt, a small smile through his beard, Joran said to her, "thank you, I appreciate it aunt Maege."

"It's all part of the job," Maege said with a smile of her own. "No matter how big you get, you'll always be that little bundle of fur I always used to hold in my arms."

Feeling warm on the inside by Maege's words, Joran, not one to dwell too long on familial happiness when there was grim news to be heard, asked his aunt, "what happened, how did I end up here in your room?"

"Where to begin," Maege said thoughtfully now that she was sure that Joran wasn't going to try get up again. "For starters I suppose, its safe to say that you had been missed by the King. After the feast, I'm surprised he wanted to see you after what you told him. He wanted you to join him and the other northern lords on the hunt the morning after the feast, so, we sent men to look for you."

"No doubt he wanted to try and see me hunt like a real bear, huh?"

"I wouldn't say a bear, but pretty much. Anyway, what the men ended up finding was a silver direwolf pup that lead them to you and Bran, unconscious and right for dead."

"You should know by now not to count me out too quickly, Maege."

"Oh, believe me I didn't. Everyone else did though. And with the boy in the same boat as you the way you two were on the ground, gods the fright it gave Cat seeing her boy like that."

"How well is he? Really?" Joran, though he barely knew the child, felt the need to know if him catching the falling boy had made any difference in his well-being.

"Alive and fine like I said before, lad," Maege answered. "He's still unconscious, but from what the Maester of Winterfell has been able to let on to everyone, if you hadn't been there, Brandon would have been far worse for wear. The old man even goes so far to assume that the lad could've died or become a cripple if you hadn't let him use your body as a pillow."

"Heh, not the best pillow I suppose, but one all the same," Joran said while rubbing his head only to find a rather large goose egg buried in his hair at the back.

"Anyhow, once we found you, I got four lads to carry you to bring you up to my room so I could keep an eye on you."

"Hm, just like a bear and a cub, eh."

"You're damn right," Maege said before giving Joran's leg a swat with her hand. "You gave me quite the fright you did. Eyes closed and your body all sprawled out like you got hit in the face with a war hammer. I never thought to ever see you looking like that, and by the gods you ever look like that again, I am going to hang you up by your toes until their ripped off."

"I'll have to keep that in mind, next time I see wolves fall from the sky," Joran said before the door to Maege's room started to open to admit someone.

That someone was an elderly man in grey robes that looked rather old on the wearer, with a chain about his neck, marking him out to Joran as being the Maester of House Stark.

"Ah," the Maester said with kind surprise. "I see that one of my patients has finally woken up. I trust that your rest was pleasant?"

"As pleasant as it could've been, given the circumstances," Joran answered.

"How are you feeling," the Maester asked.

"Body feels good," Joran answered. "Head could use a little bit more help though."

"I would suspect as much," the Maester said before approaching the bed. Then, much to Joran's surprise, when he was standing over him, he didn't give any kind of distasteful expression towards the younger man's face as he rested a gentle hand on his head. Which ended up causing a headache to shoot through Mormont's skull. "You are quite the specimen, master Mormont. If any normal man had tried to do what you did for Brandon, then you would've had quite the bad day. Luckily for you though, you were blessed with a thick skull and a stout form."

_Glad to see someone can call a curse a blessing. Especially when it isn't theirs, _Joran thought ruefully before saying plainly, "thank you for the compliment, Maester, ehm…"

"Lewin," the older gentleman said as he removed his hand from Joran's scalp, much to the younger man's relief. "I think that a few more days of bed rest could do you some good, master Joran. I can give you some herbs and lotions to help with the swelling on your head and milk of the poppy to help you sleep if you find it difficult with your injury."

"I think that I would appreciate some of those herbs, Maester Lewin," Joran said, feeling that he might as well if he wanted to get out of bed fast enough to head north.

"Some small comfort can be provided for you, ser," Lewin said with a kind smile. "If you could just wait a moment and I'll fetch some of the remedies for you."

"That would sound lovely, thank you," Joran said returning the man's smile.

Once Maester Lewin had left the room, Joran's mind began to wonder for a time, until a thought came to him. Something he had quite frankly forgotten about since the feast.

"Maege," Joran said. "Has the wildling been taken care of since I've been out?"

"Aye, I've had the guards take care of your pet until you were well," Maege said with little hint of emotion towards the subject of Osha. "Which reminds me, you weren't in your room when the King sent men to find you for the hunt."

"That's because I didn't go back to my room when I left the feast," Joran said honestly.

"Really? Where did you go then?"

"To the forest north east of the castle for some peace and quiet," Joran answered plainly

"Well, sounds like you had a cold night," Maege said with some surprise. "Glad that you weren't found as an icicle."

"Aye," Joran said, thankful for the sentiment himself.

Before Maege could say anything more, Maester Lewin returned with his medicine and with him, Eddard Stark.

"My Lord," Joran said in greeting.

"I advised Lewin to inform me when you were awake," Eddard said as he approached Joran's bed. "Told him I'd have words with you when you were."

Before Joran could say anything else, the older man laid a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"You saved my son," Eddard said, his voice seemingly light as the words left his mouth.

"I was only lucky enough to be there at the right moment, my Lord," Joran said honestly.

"Doesn't matter. I misjudged you when we first met, and for that, the Gods thought to humble me. And, instead of standing by allowing Their punishment to befall on my family, you saved my son from death or worse when he fell." Eddard's eyes seemed different from the first time they had looked upon Joran. Rather than being as cold and hard as ice, they seemed to look kindly on the deformed boy. "And I'll owe you for that until my dying day. Anything you want, whenever you want, if it is within my power, you'll have it."

"I – I don't know what to say, my Lord." Joran in truth did..

"You don't have to say anything until you need to, lad," Eddard said, giving Joran's shoulder a fond squeeze before releasing it. "And from here on out, call me by my name. Eddard or Ned as everyone else does."

"Alright…Eddard," Joran said before the Lord of Winterfell stepped out of the room.

"Well," Maege said after she was sure that Eddard was well away from hearing them. "My congratulations to you nephew. It's a mighty thing to have the Warden of the North in your debt."

"I'm half tempted to let the debt lie," Joran said, a little baffled by such circumstances. "A noble man like that appreciating anything I do, even if it is good, is a little scary to think about."

"Why's that," Maege asked, a little surprised by her nephew's words.

Joran said nothing, but he thought to himself, _he's seen my face. No doubt Eddard believed that I was the monster from the stories he had heard about me before I even arrived here, and he would be right to think so still. The fact that he may think me a hero now for saving his son, is too strange for me to admit. Because I know that, I'm no hero._

"Eddard Stark is one of the most noble of men," Lewin spoke up when Joran remained silent. "But, as right as you may feel to release him of his debt, it may seem disrespectful to deny him any chance to repay such a deed as yours. Even if it was intentional or accidental."

Taking a moment to consider it, Joran decided to keep such a debt and said, "all right, I suppose I'll take him up on his offer someday. And finding Bran _was_ an accident. Trying to catch him was intentional."

"And the Starks are all the more grateful that you were able to catch him," Lewin said before walking up to the bed with a poultice in his hand, no doubt for Joran's goose egg of a bump. When the old man set it upon the young Mormont's bruised head, he winced and hissed at the stinging sensation it caused. "Hold this to your head for a time, and I'll replace it later on before evening comes."

"Thanks," Joran said before replacing his hand to the poultice so he could hold it in place.

"If you would both excuse me, my Lord and Lady, but I must go and see to my other patient," Lewin said with a curt nod to the two Mormonts.

"Don't let us keep you," Joran said as the man moved towards the door.

Before he left however, Lewin turned back to look at Joran and said with a small smile, "allow me to add my thanks to you, Joran. The Starks have been my family for as long as I have been their Maester. And for you to have saved one of the children, is without question a blessing to this House. So, thank you."

"Your welcome," Joran said, offering a smile back to the older man.

When Lewin left, Maege said, "I doubt that'll be the last thank you that you get before the day is out, nephew."

"Suppose not, but, before I get anymore, I think I'll go back to sleep," Joran said. He didn't feel like sleeping, but he couldn't well leave the bed without Maege stopping him, and he did not have any desire to keep getting the many thanks' face to face. So, Joran just decided he might as well rest while he could before he started for The Wall.

"Aye, you rest lad, you've earned it." Maege said before Joran settled down and drifted off.

…

The next day, before anyone had a chance to come and tell him how grateful they were that he had saved Bran, Joran adamantly told Maege that he wanted to see the boy. And, after a good hour of fighting with her about it, the She-Bear eventually gave out to her nephew. With two Stark guards to escort them to Bran's room, Joran, having a hand on Maege's shoulder to support himself if he took a spell and his scarf on his face, walked the halls of Winterfell to his desired destination. Once the small party arrived, guardsmen outside of the room announced their arrival to those within and admitted Joran and Maege when a voice called to let them in.

Upon stepping into the room, Joran felt that it was quite temperate from the heat of the fire, almost to the point of stuffy in comparison to the rest of the castle. The next thing that he noticed was who was inside the room. One face that Joran immediately recognized was that of a sleeping Bran Stark on a bed covered in furs, and the other was one that he took a moment to recall until he thought back to the night of the feast. It was the Lady of Winterfell, Catelyn Stark, sitting by at the bedside of her son.

And the first thing Catelyn did when she saw Joran, was get up, walk over to him and embrace him like he was her best friend.

"My…Lady," Joran mumbled in surprise.

"Forgive me," Catelyn said into his chest in a sob. "But ever since I was told he would live, I haven't come personally to thank you. And, now that you're here, I…"

Shocked by the amount of emotion that was coming from Catelyn, Joran almost didn't know what to do. Looking at Maege for help or some kind of approval, the young Mormont only got the words 'don't just stand there' mouthed to him by his aunt. So, Joran did the only sensible thing that he could think of on the spot and gently rapping the crying mother into his arms, he said, "it's alright, My Lady. Bran is more important than I and I don't blame you for giving him the company he deserves while in sleep."

He would've told her to calm down and get a grip, but Joran had better sense not to, considering the circumstances and just allowed Catelyn to cry out her emotions into his shirt.

When she finally composed herself enough to stop her sobbing, Catelyn separated from Joran, looked up to him and said with a smile, "please, call me Catelyn, or Cat, it doesn't matter. There's no need to be formal with me. Not after what you've done for my boy."

When Catelyn's hand flew to her mouth to cover up a new wave of sobs, Joran looked from her over to Bran and back, asking, "is it alright if I see him…Catelyn?"

Removing her hand, Catelyn nodded in answer.

Leaving the two older women at the doorway, Joran made his way over to the sleeping Bran alone. Coming to stand above the boy, Mormont slowly knelt down beside the bed. Then, setting his elbows atop the mattress and leaning close so the unconscious Bran could hear him, Joran said, "hello Bran. It's Joran. I'm glad that you're alright.

"Minute I heard that you were fine, I wanted to come and see you," Joran spoke with honesty before passing a hand over the bump on his head to give emphasis to his reasons why he hadn't, even though the boy couldn't see. "But, catching you kind of left some things loose upstairs so, I had to give myself a little time to recover."

His words met with only the quiet breaths of the sleeping Bran, Joran removed his hand from his head and setting it instead on the boy's shoulder, went on to say, "I'm sorry, I wasn't able to keep you from hitting the ground." The young Mormont wanted to say more, like how he'd trade places with Bran if it stopped others from worrying about if he'd ever wake up. But Joran knew that regardless if he said or thought so, wouldn't change the fact that things were as they were at present.

Hearing the sound of footsteps behind him, Joran looked back to find Catelyn Stark moving back to her place by the bedside of her son and looking from Bran to him, said, "you did what you could for him. And that is more than any mother could ask for, given what happened."

"I take it he is a good climber," Joran said. "Seeing how high he had gotten on that tower was rather surprising."

"He loved to climb," Catelyn said, wiping away fresh tears. "Was always climbing around this place, even when I asked him not to cause I thought it was a dangerous pass time for him. I hate seeing that I was right."

"It's not your fault that this happened," Joran said, trying to comfort the distressed woman. "There was probably a loose stone that he didn't fully account for in the window of the tower, lost his grip or footing is all."

"The tower, window?" Catelyn seemed surprised by the new information Joran just provided.

"Yes. When I came upon him, I found that he had climbed all the way up to the tower window. He was standing in it, his arms extended on either side of the gap, like…"

"Like what?"

"I don't know," Joran said cause, he really didn't. Barely able to remember what he had seen that day at the tower, Mormont did remember that he had turned away for only a second and Bran had fallen down to him.

Seeming to leave the matter alone, Catelyn reached across the bed to grip Joran's free hand. "It doesn't matter. My boy's still alive, still well, because you were there. Thank you."

"You're welcome," Joran said, returning the squeeze with a gentle one of his own.

Lingering in silence for a time in Bran's room, Joran eventually took his leave of the sleeping boy and the Lady Stark. Making their way back to Maege's room, the young Mormont and his party were soon met with a strange sight. A pair of Lannister guards and a very short man.

"Ah, there's the hero that everyone's been talking about," the short man said when he spied Joran.

Taking a moment to think about who the short man could be, Joran came to realize who he was and said through his scarf, "Tyrion Lannister. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"When I heard you were awake and walking about today, I wanted to meet the man who saved a child falling from the sky," Tyrion said as he waddled up to Joran and offered the larger man his hand.

Slightly bending down, Joran took Tyrion's hand and shook it firmly saying, "I wouldn't call a coincidence an act of heroism. But, thank you all the same I suppose."

Releasing the little man's hand, Joran looked on as Tyrion turned to Maege Mormont and offered her a curt bow of his head in greeting. "Lady Maege, it is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance as well."

When Maege didn't say anything, Tyrion turned back to Joran and said, "my congratulations to a job well done in regards to the Stark boy. Takes a strong man to be able to do what you did and still be walking around yourself."

"So, I've been told," Joran said, curious as to what the purpose of all this was. He knew about Tyrion Lannister, The Imp as he was known to others for his short stature. Joran just didn't know why he was interested in him.

When Tyrion saw that it was apparent that Joran wasn't going to say anything more, he went on saying, "to tell you the truth, offering my congratulations is not the only reason that's brought me here to see you."

"Hm. Really?" Joran figured there would be more, otherwise, why would a man like Tyrion bother.

"Yes, it's in regards to Bran. I would like to know how he came to fall from that tower."

"Seems a strange question to ask, don't you think, Lord Tyrion," Maege said, breaking her silence with the dwarf.

"Indeed, which is why I felt the need to ask, Lady Maege," Tyrion said while looking up at the She-Bear.

"Why do you want to know?" Joran asked, finding it rather queer that anyone from House Lannister would be concerned about a child of House Stark. The animosity the two houses had for one another wasn't a secret.

"I've always found strange and spontaneous circumstances to be curious things," Tyrion answered, looking back to Joran. "And, when I come across circumstances that interest me enough to wonder if there is anything more to them, then I start to ask questions."

"Like?"

"If you perhaps saw something out of the ordinary when Bran fell, perhaps?"

"A child falling from the sky not enough out of the ordinary for your curiosity?"

"If that was the only thing, then yes. I suppose it would be."

Staring curiously at Tyrion, Joran thought to himself, _does he think that Bran's fall was more than a loose stone? _"I didn't see anything strange really. The only one who could tell you if there was anything more out of the ordinary would have to be Bran."

"I see. Well, that is disappointing." Tyrion said this before offering his hand up to Joran again. "I appreciate our talk master Joran. And hopefully this won't be our last."

Taking the shorter man's hand, Joran shook it and watched as Tyrion left with his escort down the hall.

"What are you thinking, lad," Maege asked.

"I'm not sure," Joran said. After what he had learned from Catelyn about Bran being a good climber and still managing to fall, and now with Tyrion Lannister asking him if he had seen anything out of the ordinary when it happened, the young Mormont really didn't know what to think. And, the minute he tried to make sense of all of it, Joran's head started to hurt again.

When Joran raised his hands to try and massage his temples, by extension make the pain go away, Maege noticed and said, "alright, that's enough excitement for one day. Let's get you back to bed."

"Aye," Joran relented without question.


	5. Chapter 5

Book 1: Blood in the South

Chapter 5: Northbound

Joran

"Three…four…five," a shirtless Joran counted out loud to himself as he pushed his body away from the floor, his arms fully extending at the top of the exercise. It had been five days since he had visited Bran Stark and had been visited himself by Tyrion Lannister, and every one of those days, the young man with his headaches being a constant companion to him while he healed refused to remain bedridden during all of them. So, whenever he was alone in the room, no Maege or Maester Lewin or other visitors to bother him, Joran committed himself to a simple regimen that had been given to him by Maester Lowther when he was younger to build up what the older man called, 'athleticism.' The days' work consisted of press ups, squats, sit ups, bag lifts with just his present belongings in them considering there were no stones or wood blocks handy, and air strokes with his axe and sword for repetitions, while mauling his headaches at the same time.

It wasn't breaking down a dummy or going out of his mind and fighting whoever was in front of him, but it was suitable for Joran's purpose of remaining to some form of physical capacity. He knew that seven days in bed wouldn't kill him. What Joran did know though, was that somewhere, near and far, there was someone else keeping their sword arm ready and their blades sharp to do bloody work. If it was him that they had in mind for such work or someone else, it didn't matter. They were out there, and Joran had to be ready for them by whatever means available to him.

"Fifty…fifty-one," after he had passed the halfway point, Joran heard a knock at the door to his room. His head pounding and the muscles of his arms tight, he called out in a growl, "come in!"

Maege Mormont entered the room and upon seeing him didn't bother commenting on his state. The first, second and third time that he had been caught by his aunt, Joran had argued with her, and by the fourth encounter, had made the older woman give up on telling him to stop.

"The group going north is getting ready," Maege said grimly. "As is the party going to King's Landing. You say goodbye to the boy?"

"Yes," Joran said, knowing that she meant Bran, before doing one more rep and standing up from the floor. He had gone by earlier to bid his farewell to the sleeping child, and even went on to promise him that he would come back to check on him. Joran silently hoped the boy heard him. "Holt and Wylar ready the woman?"

"Yes. Are you sure you're up for the journey?" Out of all of the children that Maege had taken care of over the years, Joran swore that she worried about him the most.

Turning from Maege and taking his wool shirt from where he had thrown it atop the bed that he had slept in for most of his stay at Winterfell, Joran said as he put it on, "Aye, I'm sure." Moving over to her then after tucking in his shirt, the younger man wrapped his aunt in a tender hug.

"I'll send a raven when I arrive at Castle Black."

"You better," Maege warned. "And you better give Jeor my love."

"I will."

Once he released Maege, Joran adorned his gambeson, chainmail byrnie, scarf mask, sword, long knife and cloak, picked up his travel sack with his axe and shield tied to it and walked out of the room without another word.

…

Picking up Osha from his old room on his way, her rope bindings exchanged for iron cuffs and chains, Joran dragged her through the castle, ignoring the looks that came his way as he went, and walked out to the courtyard. The place a bustle of activity, more so due to the departing Royal Party with the addition of a contingent of northerners that would serve under the newly appointed Hand of the King Eddard Stark, Mormont swept through the gathered bodies until he found Benjen beside a pair of horses, saddled and packed for the journey. When the black brother's eyes found him, they brightened somewhat, until they landed on Osha.

"When I heard that you'd be traveling with me, I wasn't expecting you to bring, let alone have the informant?" Benjen said suspiciously as he inspected Osha. "Nor would I recommend it."

Knowing Benjen meant that he wouldn't recommend bringing a wildling woman to The Wall, where most of his celibate brothers there would see her as a feast for either death or sex, Joran said in response, "she's tougher than she looks, and as long as she's in my keeping, she'll get along."

"I hope so. I'd still keep one eye on her."

"Don't I already know it," Joran growled, turning his gaze to look briefly at Osha, who just turned her eyes to the ground.

"Oh yeah, that too," Benjen said, bringing Joran's attention back to him. "What I mean is watch out for her just in case another one of our traveling companions gets any ideas."

"I thought it would just be us?"

"No. I plan on picking up some new recruits along the way. Not to mention my nephew, Jon Snow is coming along."

"Heh. He has a mind to take the Black?"

"Yeah," Benjen said, seeming conflicted with the notion. "I'm hoping he'll change his mind though when we get there. Wall's a lot different than what he's probably heard about."

"It'll be his decision in the end." These were similar words that Joran's grandfather had told him back when he had tried to take the Black himself. How different things could've been if he had.

"He's not the one I'm worried about getting frisky though."

"Really? Who else is coming?"

"Tyrion Lannister and a few guards," Benjen said this with a hint of contempt to his voice. "And between him, his guards, and what recruits I do grab on the way, you never know who'll pop out first."

"What in all hells would a southerner want to go up to The Wall for?"

"Far as I know, piss off the edge of the world," Benjen said before spitting to the side. "His words of course."

Shaking his head in bewilderment, Joran said, "fucking southerners."

"Aye, and considering he's the queen's brother and Tywin Lannister's son, I'd rather you keep a tight leash on your Wildling. More for his sake you understand."

"I'll keep double tight then, for both our sakes." Joran said this grimly. He knew Tyrion's reputation with women, and he'd rather not come to find the little man had his dick bitten off by Osha.

"Joran."

Turning to the sound of his name, Joran came face to face with Eddard Stark.

"My Lord," Joran said with a nod of his head.

"Like I've told you before, lad. Call me Ned," Eddard said before looking over the horses, wildling and back to the younger man and his brother. "I came to see you off before we went our separate ways. Make sure you had what you needed."

"From what I've seen, everything seems to be in order here…Ned." Joran said before switching the subject. "I appreciate the concern."

"You're welcome," Eddard said. "Good luck on your trip north. Give Jeor my regards."

"I will, Ned. Thank you." Joran said sincerely.

"Benjen, we need to talk a moment," Eddard said to his younger brother.

The two men leaving him with the horses, Joran, thinking that conversation, though short, could've gone worse, turned to Osha and said, "might as well get you on the horse now before we set off."

Not saying a word, Osha allowed Joran to help her up onto the horse that didn't have Benjen's effects on it. Remaining on the ground, Mormont figured he'd lead the horse out of Winterfell by the reins before mounting up himself behind the wildling. His intent on his positioning being to keep a consistent hold and eye on the woman as they traveled. As he was settling Osha, Joran noticed the approach of another body from the bustling courtyard and turned to find Jon Snow leading a horse towards him.

"Hello Jon," Joran said in greeting while turning from his charge.

"Hello Joran," Jon said with a look of confusion on his face. "Are you coming up north with Benjen and me?"

"Aye, I have some business up there to attend to, and a visit long overdo with my grandfather," Joran answered. "I hear you plan on taking the Black."

"Aye."

Although Joran could commend the boy's initiative to get out of Winterell, he couldn't rightfully say that that initiative was going in the right direction. From what he had learned later on about the Wall from letters with his grandfather to what he had been told by Maege about the Night's Watch slow decay, he found that staying on Bear Island was the best thing for him. But that was Joran, and his feelings on the matter aside, he wasn't going to dissuade Jon until his opinion was wanted.

"That's good." Joran lied.

When Jon's eyes found Osha, the younger man asked Joran, "and who's this?"

"Wouldn't you like to know, pup," Osha said in a tone that was playful.

"That there is the business," Joran said before Jon or Osha could say anything else. "Business that is best left alone, Jon."

"Alright," Jon said after a curious pause.

"Ah, Jon," Benjen's voice came from behind the lad, drawing both his and Joran's attention to the First Ranger.

On his approach, Benjen said to the boy, "your father would like you to ride out with him until the Kings Road. Says he wants you by his side before you part ways."

"Alright, thanks uncle Benjen," Jon said before walking off with his horse in tow.

"Time to go, Joran," Benjen said as he moved to his mount, took the reigns and began leading the horse towards the gates.

Looking up to Osha, Joran said in warning, "if you want to survive this trip with a tongue, wildling, you better keep your mouth shut."

When she answered his statement with silence, Joran started leading his own horse towards the gates and out of Winterfell.

…

The multiple parties that left Winterfell, stretched far along the road through Wintertown towards the Kingsroad. At the front of the massive column, was the Royal party. The largest portion of the exodus, it consisted of an army of servants and soldiers to attend and protect the King and his family. Second, rode the party that would follow Eddard Stark south to Kings Landing. Neither extravagant or large like that of the royals', the Warden of the North's portion of the caravan consisted of a paltry number of servants, with the majority of its mass being guardsmen. The third portion consisted of a number of the multitude of northern lords who had attended the feast, along with their own guards and serfs. The only ones not among this group being the groups of Lady Maege and the Glover brothers, who would be taking the Wolfswood to Deepwood Motte and Bear Island respectively. At the end of the line, rode Benjen Stark, Joran Mormont, Tryion Lannister and two guardsmen of House Lannsiter.

Reaching the Kingsroad by noon, the small party turned northwards. A few other groups of northmen ahead of them, their homes lying in the same direction, the small group kept pace with them and made good time despite the traffic. By nightfall of the eighth day, the parties had come in sight of the woodland surrounding Long Lake and had set up camp off the road.

During the night, Benjen Stark mingled and spoke with the lords, as he usually did, about obtaining new recruits, no doubt from their dungeons; Joran made his own fire away from Tyrion's lot and enjoyed the silent company of Jon Snow. After supping with the lad, he turned in early and kept one eye open on Osha until morning. Barely sleeping a wink, Joran arose early, packed up his tent, relit his fire, ate a cold breakfast with the wildling in silence, and waited for Benjen and Jon to awake so they could continue.

Leaving their small camp as the sun began to rise, the party followed the larger group through the forest by Long Lake. At noon of the second day of their journey through, Joran beheld the large body of water on the east side of the road through the trees. Switching his gaze between the road and Long Lake as they went, the young Mormont soon found that they were exiting the woodland area. Beholding the northern half of the lake without the trees to block his view, Joran saw that, without so much as a breeze, the body of water looked almost like it was frozen in the daylight.

Taking another two days to bypass the lake, the companies crossed the northern bridge of The Last River on the third and once there, the larger mass split from the smaller, with mountain clansmen turning west, and the Umbers and Karstarks turning east towards their holds. A day after this parting though, their group gained more numbers. A wandering ranger by the name of Yoren met up with them, and with him, a group of undesirables bound for The Wall. When Joran noticed the look of dismay Jon had when he saw the men, he felt sorry for him. These, criminals, would be his brothers soon if he kept on his course. _With any luck_, Joran thought, _perhaps the boy will change his mind. _

On the eighteenth night of their journey, the inns and settlements of the north had long since grown thin and non-existent, forcing everyone else to join Joran in making camp for the third night in a row. While he worked though, Mormont caught one of the new recruits looking at Osha with hungry eyes. The minute he saw this, Joran beat the man bloody. Yoren would have tried to stop him, but luckily Benjen had the sense to hold him back and speak with him about the situation, as well as what would happen if he attempted to assault the young Mormont. After he had made his point abundantly clear to the derelicts, Joran set back to work and when he was finished, he was asked by the First Ranger to go fetch his nephew and Tyrion for supper.

As he approached the two, sitting with each other Jon facing him and Tyrion's back to him, Joran heard them talking. The subject was that of the Night's Watch, and little Lannister was in no subtle way explaining to Snow the hard truths that came with the noble calling. Coming upon them the minute Jon asked Tyrion to stop, Joran immediately found his path blocked by a white direwolf, that had crept out of nowhere like a shade. Knowing it to be Jon's companion Ghost, Mormont had attempted to establish a friendly connection with the albino wolf the first night when he had camped outside of the first village they had come to. Other than a few times when he had fed Ghost a portion of his campfire dinners, Joran hadn't really been able to gain the wolf's trust. The evidence of that fact was plain before the young Mormont, as red eyes bored into him, warning him to stay away. For the short amount of time he was standing there, Joran could only stare back, one beast to another. Neither willing to back down from the other.

"Ghost," Jon's voice came from behind the direwolf, drawing its attention from Joran. "Come here boy."

When Ghost turned away from him and moved over to Jon, only to stand vigilance beside his master, Joran looked to the two and said plainly, "supper's ready. Benjen and Yoren are waiting on you two."

"Aye, thank you Joran." Jon said before standing up and moving in the direction of dinner with Ghost in tow. Noticing the scowl on his face as he walked past, Joran hoped that Snow didn't take Tyrion's words too badly.

When Tyrion stood up from his place on the ground and turned to face him, Joran was met with a kind smile from the little man and a positive tone to his voice when he spoke. "Ah, Mormont. Glad to see you, feels like ages since we last talked with one another."

Taking the sarcasm in the smaller man's voice with some guilt and a grain of salt to make it taste better, considering he had been avoiding Tyrion the entire journey, Joran responded with, "aye, it does seem that way doesn't it."

"Indeed. Must have been a few rough weeks for you and your woman. Making camp away from every village we passed, avoiding a warm bed and proper shelter. Honestly, I don't know how you've been able to do it."

It wasn't a secret that Tyrion Lannister didn't like the outdoors, or was even close to adept enough to tolerate them like his northern companions. Joran even pitied the small southerner for his lack of experience. "If you do something long enough, you learn how to get good at it."

"Like your reputation, perhaps?"

Taken aback by the forwardness of the little man, Joran quickly gathered himself and responded in agreement, "aye, like my reputation."

"Tell me, master Mormont," Tyrion said, waddling up closer to Joran. "What is it like?"

"What is what like?"

"Being loved for what you are?" Tyrion said this in a voice that seemed almost distant. As though he and Joran were alone someplace comfortable, where thoughtful insights were available for expression. "A monster that uses his skills against other monsters."

"Hm," Joran didn't understand where Tyrion was trying to go with this kind of talk, but he decided to humor the dwarf. "I wouldn't say loved. More along the lines of feared."

"I didn't get that impression from your friends," Tyrion said, no doubt in reference to Benjen and Jon.

"They've had time to actually become my friends. Talk to any other northman, who doesn't know me outside of my, _work_, and they will all be the same in their answers."

"Which are?"

"That I'm nothing but what you said, a monster who looks like a man. A beast that relishes battle above all else." Joran wouldn't deny the image that everyone painted of him. Because that's all it was and that's all that he wanted to be known for to anyone who didn't have his trust or best interests at heart.

"In my opinion, monsters are quite useful." Tyrion said as a smirk began to form on his face. "I know a few such useful creatures. But none of them are as calm and collected as the one in front of me. And I find that, admirable in people like you and I."

"People like you and I?"

"Freaks, Joran," Tyrion said.

Cocking a curious eyebrow at the statement and the fact that Tyrion presumed to use his name, Joran said, "You and I are as different as summer and winter, master Lannister."

"Call me Tyrion," the little man said, his smile never wavering. "And you and I are more alike than you would admit."

Scoffing, Joran gathered himself again and said, "well, Tyrion, other than the fact that we two aren't much to look at, I doubt that-."

"My mother died giving birth to me," Tyrion suddenly said. "And from what knowledge I've gathered about you, you lost your mother too."

Stunned by the revelation, and the fact that Tyrion knew about what happened to his own mother, Joran growled in warning, "I'd watch where you tread, dwarf!"

"I meant no offense," Tyrion said, lifting his empty hands in surrender. "I just wanted to state how you and I aren't so different from one another. Save, the obvious differences in height, strength, and temperament."

"Hrrgh," Joran growled. He had a mind to punt the little man back towards camp for his forward words. But, given the fact that Tyrion gave as much about himself as he did about Joran, the younger man decided to let it slide. "You said that you found me admirable. Why?"

"Isn't it obvious," Tyrion said, lowering his hands back to his sides. "You take what the gods cursed you with and turned it into something useful. Protecting what's yours and those that you care about."

"And you don't?"

"Sadly, I have neither the strength or ferocity of a lion. Unlike you, I'm not gifted in fighting. But I have found that there are other ways to be useful. To utilize weapons available to me that others take for granted."

Curious, Joran asked, "like?"

"My mind, Joran," Tyrion said before producing a book from within his cloak. "It is my greatest weapon and in order to use it to the fullest extent, I read. For a mind needs books as a sword needs a whetstone."

"Heh, I never took you for the reading type," Joran said in reference to Tyrion's reputation for being a drunken whoremonger.

"Believe me, I paint a very bland picture of myself on purpose. The more any enemies I have believe me to be less of a match for them in their schemes. The better advantage I later gain from their lack of effort in dealing with me."

"Not a bad way to go about it," Joran said before extending his hand out to Tyrion. "Mind if I see what you're reading?"

"Of course, its just a little something I borrowed from the Winterfell library." Tyrion said before handing the book to the larger man.

Looking at the cover to find that the book was a copy of the _The Dance of Dragons, _Joran raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Dance of Dragons? I haven't read this book in years."

"You read?"

"Aye, or at least I did," Joran said before opening the book and flipping through a few of its pages. "When I was young and taking my lessons under the maester of my house, I read, and when I took up my own command I read. When I had a mind to form the Oathbound, I wanted to learn more about strategy and soldiery. The material remained the same in some parts and changed in others, but I took what I needed from it all and learned a thing or two."

"Well then. I suppose that gives us more than one thing in common."

Removing his eyes from the pages back to Tyrion, Joran nodded in agreement and offering the book back him said, "aye, suppose it does."

After Tyrion took _The Dance of Dragons _back, Joran, quick to leave the talk at that, said, "best be getting back. Supper's probably going to be gone or frozen by now."

"Quite right," Tyrion said, his wide eyed and admiring demeanor changing back to its usual uncaring and jovial one. "Better to go to bed on a stomach full of some food rather than no food I always say. I wonder if what's being served will go well with my wine?"

The two men making their way back to camp, where food and a fire were waiting for them, they never once mentioned their talk to anyone else when they arrived and avoided each other for the rest of the night.

…

After five more days of travel, the small party came in sight of The Wall, and upon seeing it for the second time in his life, Joran halted his horse and felt his breath escape him. The sight of the seven-hundred-foot structure was amazing and never failed to impress those who sought its view. Letting the wonder at seeing The Wall leave him, Joran urged his steed onward after the others towards Castle Black and his grandfather.

…

** Hello everyone, just writing to address something that came up in the review section from a guest reviewer in regards to the Ironborn pirates attacking Bear Island. The folk of the Iron Islands have a society that revolves around piracy, and are born and raised on seafaring due to their religious beliefs around the Drowned God. In my mind, they need piracy in order to function as a region due to the fact that they can't really farm on the islands, due to the sparsity of good farming land on the very rocky and windswept places there. And sure, they can't attack the Seven Kingdoms openly and can probably make it as sea traders or smugglers. But, as insulting as it would seem to these crazy bastards, what could they trade except others toils from the mainland and any amount of fish that they catch on the open ocean, which might not even be a profitable venture for many due to the fact that all the high lords of the islands would take the best fishing grounds for themselves to increase their own wealth. The fact that these guys no doubt tax their own people is another issue that all smallfolk have to face as well. How can they remedy this? Why raiding and piracy of course. Sure, they can't raid the Seven Kingdoms, but they can raid elsewhere in the world, since no one owns the narrow sea where they could simply use and abuse easterners on the ocean or get into scraps with other pirates and take what they have after. If they win that is. Moving along as to why they would raid Bear Island, or even elsewhere for that matter in Westeros. If an Ironborn crew of poor folk who banded together to man a ship and go raiding and get some loot to pay off a lord, they could obviously disguise their ship and crew just to look like regular pirates to southern vessels on the sea, or, even go so far as to dress up as Wildlings if they wanted to go ashore in the north, since Wildling raiders are a common occurrence up there. If they were recognized as actual Ironborn, which is plain since Joran knows, then ever single lord in the Iron Islands can claim that they didn't know such expeditions were occurring since it was smallfolk doing the raiding, and hell they'd lie about knowing just to make sure the money kept flowing into their pockets from these secret raids on the high seas. But I'm just going to come out and say it plainly since I believe it won't come up until book three, Maege knows about the raiders and decides not to inform Eddard about them and yes, I know that loyalty to Eddard is paramount to Northerners because he is a great lord. When you have a rage machine like Joran around however, there comes the fact that he may need more than just Wildlings to satiate his darker personas appetite. I mean for crying out loud, he locks himself up to keep everyone else safe. From Him! Now, onto why more Ironborn would continue to go to Bear Island. It's simple. The Ironborn are based off of the Vikings, like the Vikings they may have an unspoken code of honor where if one family member is killed, then their death must be avenged by either the family or shield brothers of the deceased. Obviously not getting the message of stay the hell away if you want to live, the Ironborn, if not as a full people then as a multitude of small groups, have a secret feud with the Mormonts, Joran specifically and they want what they are due for the loss of their men and womenfolk. Sor if I sounded like I was ranting, I just wanted to paint a picture for readers who may be wondering why there are Ironborn raiding when they aren't allowed to raid. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and I only own Joran. **


	6. Chapter 6

**Hello again everyone. After reading a few reviews from a few angry critics, I decided to edit out a few pieces of content in earlier chapters that really didn't go along with the character of Joran Mormont. The chapters I changed are number four and five, feel free to give those a reread if you have the time, hopefully they turned out better than their predecessors and please, feel free to give me critique anytime. Plus, I would kindly request that everyone please, when you are reviewing, keep any feelings about the eighth season of Game of Thrones out of your reviews. This fanfiction is just for fun, I'm not trying to give anyone a better, or worse, ending than what we were given in the tv series. I'm just giving my own take on the matter. Enjoy this next chapter. I OWN NOTHING! Except Joran.**

Book 1: Blood in the South

Chapter 6: The Old-Bear

Joran

Riding towards Castle Black, the small company, rather than being stopped by an outlying wall that most castles would have, found themselves in the company of the buildings and soldiers of the Night's Watch. Like most castles that lined The Wall, there were no walls facing the west, east, or southern directions. Unfazed by the wall-less fortress, Joran, remembering what his grandfather Jeor had told him years ago about why there were no walls, rode on into the courtyard.

The group halting their horses in the yard, they began to dismount. After helping Osha down from her place on their horse, Joran, keeping an arm on the woman, began to lead his horse after Benjen and Yorin to where the stables were located. Depositing his mount into the hands of a few of the young Night's Watch recruits, the young Mormont soon came face to face with another who had been sent to fetch him personally and take him to his rooms.

Bidding a fond farewell to Benjen and Jon, and a terse one to Tyrion, Joran with Osha in tow followed the recruit to where he would be staying. Soon enough, the young Mormont and his wildling arrived to their room. It was one that Joran recognized, the one he had stayed in when he was last at Castle Black. Despite the fact that small space was far from what any normal highborn would be used to, with only a fireplace that already held a healthy flame, a lone chair placed against a wall that at one point had a desk to match, and a bed of straw in a corner, the room held a story to it that was more than capable of filling what empty space there was available.

The minute he and Osha were left alone, Joran started to get settled in. Placing his pack down near the fireplace, he turned to the wildling and said through his scarf, "you understand what I expect from you while we are here."

It wasn't so much a question as it was a general expectation. Both of them knew that if Osha left the room for any reason at all, Joran wouldn't be able to protect her from any of the Night's Watchmen who still held their own, _unsavory_ tendencies towards women. And, while half of the black brothers would want to take a pound of flesh from the wildling, the other half would more than likely want to just take her head. So, in order to keep the peace in Castle Black and keep Osha safe until her moment of judgement with him, Joran planned on bringing up the subject about her with his grandfather as soon as possible.

"Aye," Osha answered all the same. The way she looked to Joran then, the woman reminded him of a caged animal that was about to be slaughtered. Which wouldn't be too far from the truth if Osha left the room without him.

"Good."

Remaining with Osha for a time to rest after their long journey, Joran, his whetstone and axe in hand, sat in the chair at the door to make sure no one barged in unannounced. As he sharpened the dual smiles of his double bitted weapon, the wildling, after gaining his permission, took to the bed and slept with her chains on. When he started to nod off in his seat, Joran felt a knock on the door behind him that shook him fully awake.

"Lord Mormont."

"Aye," Joran answered.

"The Lord Commander requests your presence, sir."

"I know my way," Joran called back. After the visitor's footsteps faded back down the hallway, the northman looked to find Osha's eyes wide open looking towards the door. Rising from his seat, Joran tossed his whetstone onto his pack and began to tie his sword and knife onto his belt. The last thing he wanted to do was leave Osha a weapon that she could use to both defend herself and kill him unsuspectingly when he returned. Shouldering his axe, Joran looked back to the wildling woman and ordered, "shove the chair against the door after I leave. When I come back, I'll knock and say something to let you know it's me."

Not waiting for a confirmation from Osha, Joran turned his back to her and left to meet his grandfather.

…

Standing outside of the quarters of Jeor Mormont, Joran thought back to the first time he had stood before the wooden door. It had been after he had arrived to Castle Black with a mind to join the Night's Watch. Although the Watch was notorious for accepting any strays that came their way, the grandson of the Lord Commander had brought pause to all who thought to just let the child into the organization. Eventually, it had been a younger Benjen Stark that had made the decision to bring Joran to Jeor, to have words with the older Mormont and obtain his decision on the matter. That decision had inevitably sent the foolish boy back home on the next tide from the Shadow Tower.

A small smile forming beneath his beard at the memory of how cold he had been just waiting for his grandfather to allow him entrance to the room and a place by the fire inside, Joran lifted a closed fist and rapped his knuckles against the door three times.

"Come in," a voice of gravel answered from within.

Unhitching the latch and pushing the door to the room open, its hinges creaking loudly, Joran stepped in. Taking the scene before him, he noticed that not much had changed, and if he wasn't mistaken, the room was exactly the same as before when he was last there. There was a roaring fire in the hearth, two chairs and a bear pelt rug next to it. Further into the abode, sat a heavy desk of oak that was adorned with stacks of parchment, lit candles atop stands of twisted black iron, and a tall inkwell that held a long feather quill within it. Three out of the four walls of the room were adorned with armaments said to have belonged to former Lord Commanders. Shields, swords, warhammers, and axes wrapped around the room to the fourth wall, which only held a lone window. Before that window, stood a tall figure with a raven perched on one of his shoulders.

"Corn!" The creature cawed when it spotted Joran.

"Close the door before you let the heat out, lad," Jeor said, his eyes never leaving the window.

Doing as he was told by his grandsire; Joran pushed the entrance to the room closed. Then, moving further into the room, the younger man spoke. "Hello, Grandfather."

Finally turning from the window, Jeor Mormont looked fully at Joran. An imposing figure, the older man was dressed head to toe in thick black clothing that no doubt protected him from the harsh cold of The Wall. Though the top of his head was lacking in hair, Jeor sported a grey white beard that hung just below his chest, giving him a look that didn't lack wisdom. His beard swaying from side to side as he moved, the older man approached Joran.

When he came to stand before his grandson, who stood a single head taller than him, Jeor gave Joran a hard look and asked, "is that all you have to say? After all this time?"

Though he was the taller one between them, in that moment, Joran felt like he had become as small as Tyrion Lannister before the eyes of Jeor. And he hadn't felt that small in years.

Feeling nervous, Joran didn't say anything in response to his grandfather.

Luckily, he didn't have to.

Jeor, without another word, wrapped his arms around Joran and gave him a mighty hug, the action causing the raven atop his shoulder to caw indignantly and remove itself to the rafters of the ceiling before it was crushed in the embrace.

Chuckling into Joran's chest, Jeor looked up to his grandson and said, "I'm just messing with you lad."

When the two parted, Joran watched as Jeor looked him up and down with a fond smile and a twinkle in his eye.

"Gods boy. You got big."

"Four years is a long time, Grandfather," Joran said in response.

"I'll say." Jeor said before giving Joran a fond slap on the arm and gesturing towards one of the two chairs before the hearth. "Let's sit awhile and talk before supper. And put that damned scarf down so I can hear you better."

Doing as he was told without question, Joran followed Jeor towards the two seats before the hearth while the older man stated plainly, "I've heard from Benjen that you have a few things to talk to me about."

"Aye," Joran admitted as he took a seat across from Jeor. "And then some."

"Well, best to get the grim business out of the way then," Jeor said before his pet raven screamed from above, "corn!"

Holding back a fond smile at the fact that his grandfather, as usual, wanted to get to the heart of work before taking a moment to relax and talk about other things, Joran began. "I heard from an informant-."

"A wildling informant," Jeor said sternly. "Don't try and leave out the details, son."

"From a wildling woman," Joran corrected, "about some grim tidings that are occurring north of The Wall. She tells me that her people have a new King?"

"Aye, that they do," Jeor said, his tone and stare going hard before his grandson. "Mance Rayder."

"What do you know about him?"

"He was my brother once," Jeor answered. "As well as the brother of every man who is serving in the Night's Watch. Raised and stationed at the Shadow Tower, he had perhaps one of the strongest ties to the Watch than any man who is serving today."

"If that's the case. Why did he defect?"

"From what I heard from the commander of the Shadow Tower, Denys Mallister, it was over a cloak."

His eye brows shooting up in surprise, Joran asked in shock, "a cloak?"

"Aye," Jeor said while adding a shrug of his shoulders for emphasis. "Way it went, Mance went out ranging, weeks later he came back to the Tower with his cloak patched up with red cloth. Seeing the state of the cloak and the fact that the Ranger hadn't replaced it yet, Denys ordered him to do so. The next day, Mance was gone without a word."

"Heh. Strange? Never knew a cloak could mean so much to a man." Then again, Joran could understand the sentiment for clothing, considering he valued the scarfs he wore to hide his facial features.

"Well, he valued it enough to bring various tribes together into an army and now he's the King Beyond the Wall. Strange as it is."

"Has he made any attempt to move on The Wall?" Joran asked.

"Not yet," Jeor answered. "But, considering he's a learned man, I think he's just waiting for the right moment to try. Don't know why though. The state of the Watch as it is today, he'd have little contest in an assault."

Though he didn't want to admit it, Joran had to agree with Jeor. Of the multiple fortresses that blanketed the southern border of The Wall, there were only three that were still manned. The others were abandoned due to a lack in numbers to occupy them. And, considering what few men Joran had seen in Castle Black itself; the Night's Watch's numbers were still dwindling.

"You'd still give him a run for his money though," Joran said, replacing reality with positivity.

"With a fortification as big as the one we man, sure, our numbers could hold out. Give any foe that tries adequate numbers and a will to use them though, and it's another story. And with our recent decline of disciplined and experienced men, we'll soon be lacking swords to meet such numbers." Jeor's grim words were the blatant truth of it, and considering he was the one who would be leading any defense there would be when an army did come from north of The Wall, it hurt Joran to think about losing the Old Bear.

"Decline? You mean the men who've been going missing?"

"Aye. I take it Benjen told you such information."

"He did. The First Ranger wanted to save me a trip up here by answering the questions I had for you."

"Well, I'm glad you still came, despite getting told what you wanted to know already."

"That's the thing, he only eluded to the other reason for my visit. One that is potentially connected to these uncanny occurrences."

"Let's have that other reason then," Jeor said, his eyes hinting he may already know.

"The Wildling informed me about an eight-thousand-year-old enemy coming back. Of White Walkers and dead men rising."

Turning his eyes away from his grandson, Jeor gazed into the fire and there was silence in the room for a moment. Allowing the Old Bear to take his time in answering, Joran turned his eyes up to the rafters to look at the raven. The creature was black as night, but not as quiet. Ever since his last visit to The Wall, Joran new the bird to be a constant companion to Jeor, and it seemed even though it was an obnoxious thing that had been funny in his youth, the old man still enjoyed its company. Scrutinizing the raven though, made the young Mormont think back to his dreams of late. Of a black creature flying to him through a snowstorm.

"Corn!" The raven cawed when it caught Joran looking at him, forcing the younger man from his thoughts.

"I can't say for certain," Jeor said, his eyes never moving from the fire. "All I know is that besides Rangers missing, there have been reports of wildling tribes making mass migrations. Almost as if they were running."

"Maybe to this Mance Rayder, to join him?" Joran asked, returning his eyes to his grandfather.

Turning his eyes away from the fire then, Jeor then said, "or away from something. Few things as there are that would make groups of wildlings flee.

"What is certain though, is that winter is coming. And we might not be ready for it."

Considering Jeor's words, Joran came to the conclusion that as far as Walkers, his grandfather didn't know if such monsters had returned. He perhaps had a feeling in his gut about them, but he wouldn't truly know until he saw them. And, like his grandsire, Joran wouldn't know either.

Jeor, setting all grim talk aside, asked Joran, "how is everyone?"

"They're well," Joran answered. "Maege is keeping everything together well enough."

"With your help I take?"

"Aye. But she'd be able to without me around."

"And how are her daughters?"

"Alysane and her cubs are well. Lyra, Jorelle, and Lyanna are growing like weeds. Dacey, eh…"

"Is well?"

"Aye," Joran answered plainly.

"Still holding grudges?"

"Aye."

"Just like her mother. There was never a time when Maege and I had our own grudges against one thing or another."

"I doubt your disagreements were as, violent, as mine was towards Dacey back then grandfather."

"Family never stays angry with each other forever. Dacey will come around; she just needs more time."

"Another four years couldn't hurt, I suppose."

Smiling briefly at Joran's quip, Jeor asked, "and, has there been any word from your father?"

His own mirth leaving him at the mention of Jorah, Joran looked away from Jeor and into the flames of the hearth before he answered, "no. There has been no word from that craven since he left. Why do you ask?"

"Optimism mostly," Jeor said, his eyes falling to the floor boards in thought.

"Optimism for what? That he'll magically change his cowardly ways and take responsibility for his crimes. Make his way back and put his head on the block?"

"Or take the Black." Jeor's eyes shot up from the boards to look at his grandson to accentuate his point.

Looking to his grandfather, Joran then realistically stated, "you have too much faith in him. Expecting a man like Jorah to ever come back and take that route? It's a fantasy."

"A father should have some faith in his children, and expect them to do the right thing in the end, regardless of what they've done," Jeor said.

"Pity he didn't share your sentiment when he could. I might have hated the bastard a little less if he did," Joran said.

Joran's birth hadn't been an easy one for Jorah and his wife, Maria Glover. From what he had learned from Maester Lowther, the two had been trying to get an heir for years, with every earlier attempt turning into a stillborn. The last time they tried, Joran had been born. When he took his first breath however, his mother Maria took her last.

The moment his wife died and he saw what the infant looked like; Jorah immediately had distanced himself from Joran. As the early years went on, the Lord of Bear Island's neglect had evolved into open hatred towards the boy. Whenever Joran had tried to connect with Jorah, the older man either blatantly ignored him or violently beat him out of spite. The only times the child had ever found some semblance of peace was when his father went off to war and he was left in the care of Maege and her daughters.

After the last war that Jorah went on however, he wedded another woman, Lynesse Hightower, and when they came to Bear Island, Joran became acquainted with a new world of abuse.

If Jorah or his bitch wife ever came back to Westeros, Joran would have more than words with both of them.

"Time has a way of changing men for the better, Joran." Jeor said these words with a tiny hint of enthusiasm.

"Or worse," Joran countered.

"Lad, you need to find it in your heart-."

"To forgive my father? Is that what you were about to say?" Joran growled angrily before gripping the arms of his chair, while his inner demon writhed at the idea of such a proposal.

Sensing that Joran may be close to exploding, Jeor lifted a steady hand and said softly, "easy, Joran. Easy."

Breathing in deeply and exhaling, Joran slowly released his grip on the chair and reined The Berserker back.

"How can you expect Dacey to forgive you, if you can't forgive your father, Joran?" Jeor asked sensibly.

Taking a moment to dwell on his answer, Joran spoke when he was able to find the words. "I don't expect Dacey to forgive me. Part of me wishes that I could go back and stop myself from doing what I did. But then I wake up Jeor, and remember that I can't change the past, much as I want to. I know Dacey won't forgive me, despite the scores of apologies I've given her, and when the day comes that she gets her chance to get even, I'll be half inclined to let her have her due.

"As for Jorah, if he ever comes back, he'll find his reckoning waiting for him. Just like I know mine will be waiting for me back on Bear Island."

"All men have a reckoning, Joran. But we as men have a chance to change when or how that reckoning comes if we better ourselves now rather than later. Dacey, if she's anything like her mother, will forgive you. You will then learn to forgive yourself. And, maybe if time permits, your father as well."

Looking away from his grandfather and into the fire, Joran simply kept his silence. For the remainder of their time together before dinner, the two Mormonts simply enjoyed each other's silence.

…

During the first few days of his stay at The Wall, Joran spent his time there in many different ways and eventually came up with his own schedule. At the start of each day, he would break his fast with his grandfather, Maester Aemon, Benjen Stark, and the other officers of Castle Black.

Then, Joran would deliver a portion of the morning meal to Osha, as well as lunch and dinner later on. When he had returned to his lodgings after his talk with Jeor, the young Mormont had removed Osha's chains from her wrists and had told her that her words to him had been confirmed to be true. She then had asked him what would happen to her from then on, Joran had told her that he'd know after they left The Wall and advised her to remain scarce until that time came.

After breakfast, Joran would spend most of the early hours of the days with Jeor. The two Mormonts would wander the grounds of Castle Black, talking in depth about the state of the Night's Watch. On the second day of Joran's stay, Jeor recounted the fact that the order's number continued to dwindle with each season, regardless of if men went missing during ranging missions. Some men would either desert or commit a deadly crime, such as rape or murder, away from the fortress that would force a deadly reprisal from the Lord Commander if and when they returned. To which Joran responded that it was a sad situation either way for any man of the Watch, if they were foolish enough to try such actions and believe they could escape punishment.

The morning after the depressing talk of brothers committing to their own executions, Joran would recommend the construction of actual walls around the castle to deny desertion or freedom of crime away from the fortress. Jeor could commit guards to timed watches to keep the Black Brothers at home and, perhaps their numbers could grow if given enough time. The Old Bear had scoffed and said that the minute he tried to lock his charges in, they'd go mad or turn suicidal, considering the only reason there weren't more desertions was because of the certain, _services,_ provided to the brothers at the nearby village of Mole's Town. Disgruntled at the fact that his idea was dismissed so easily by his grandfather, Joran was not surprised at the fact that an order that was known for its members fabled celibacy was anything but.

On the third morning, Joran had been allowed to stand beside Jeor and watch as the new recruits trained with one another under the direction of Alliser Thorne. The majority of them were unimpressive. Most of the recruits were from poor backgrounds with little to no knowledge in fighting or self-defense, and the few who did have a little of such experience stood out as brawlers more than warriors. But then again, even brawlers had the potential for fast improvement, many cases of such occurrences were found by Joran in members of the Oathbound. When the session was over, Jeor had asked his grandson his opinion on his charges. Joran merely put his thoughts to words and even went on to state that, given what he knew was coming, he was worried. Figuring the younger man would, Jeor let the young Mormont know then that he had a plan that had the potential to fix the problem. With the help of Tyrion Lannister. Inquiring as to how the smaller man could fix any problem, besides a full bottle of spirits, Joran was let in on Jeor's plan to have the southerner plead the Night's Watch's case to his sister the Queen, who could then bring it to the King's attention. Though he had little interaction with the Queen, the young Mormont had had plenty with the King to know that whatever help that the older Mormont desperately needed would be far from speedy, if there was any at all. But, not having the heart to crush what little hope Jeor had for assistance against the oncoming Wildling threat, Joran merely told his grandsire that he hoped Tyrion could be able to open the door to them for speedy reinforcements.

While his mornings were spent primarily with his grandfather, Joran's afternoons were spent with either Maester Aemon or Benjen Stark. During his time with the maester, the younger man would aid the older in feeding the Watch's ravens. As the two men would walk beside the cages holding the birds, Joran would gain some incite from Aemon on his own thoughts as to the threat to the Wall that would be coming from the lands beyond. The old man told the younger that with any luck from the Gods or help from the south, the Watch would be able to properly prepare for any onslaught that would come their way, be it from wildlings or worse, from beyond The Wall. But Aemon also noted that, with the oncoming winter predicted to be the longest in living memory, the grim times approaching have the potential to be worse. Brooding on the maester's words of realism in his private moments, Joran could only hope that what grim times were coming were not enough to overcome The Wall and the men holding it.

Benjen's opinion was one of a more defiant nature. Spending his days walking The Wall with the First Ranger, Joran would ask him how he saw the oncoming fight playing out. Benjen simply put that if the wildlings wanted to get past The Wall, then they would pay a heavy price in blood if he had anything to say about it when they came. When Joran inquired how he believed the younger and untried brothers would fair in such a fight, the older ranger grimly put that when it was over, he could only see the lucky ones surviving. After this was said, on the fourth afternoon of his stay, the young Mormont was asked a favor from the First Ranger.

"I'll be going on a ranging here soon," Benjen said as the two made their way to the Cage, a box of wood and metal that the men of the Night's Watch used to raise or lower men from The Wall's top.

"How soon," Joran asked as he stepped into the contraption with Benjen.

"I'll be leaving tomorrow." Benjen answered before closing the doors to the Cage and giving a signal to the brothers to start lowering them down.

"Hm, not afforded a lot of time to rest I take it?" Joran asked as the machine cranked and moaned in their descent.

"With what's been happening, no one really is," Benjen said in a huff, his breath forming steam from his mouth as he spoke into the cold air. "And I'm the First Ranger, my place is out beyond The Wall, doing what I can to figure out where that bugger Mance is before he has a chance to hit us."

"Does your nephew know," Joran inquired.

"Aye, and he isn't too happy about it," Benjen said. "Lad wanted to come with me. I told him he wasn't ready, he thought he was and I told him that he was no better than any other recruit there."

"Sounds just like any other boy trying to prove he's a man," Joran said.

"Aye, and that's the problem. We have too many boys, not enough men nowadays."

The two becoming silent and enabling the constant cranking and groaning of the Cage to fill the quiet, it wasn't until halfway down that Benjen spoke up again.

"Joran, I have a favor to ask you."

Surprised, Joran looked to Benjen and asked, "favor?"

"Aye. Before you head back south to home, I would appreciate it if you could look out for Jon, keep him out of trouble while I'm away."

"Don't you have brothers who could keep an eye on your nephew?"

"Not enough that I trust to not try and take advantage of the boy, and not enough that I do who would actually give a damn to do so."

Taking a moment to consider his answer, Joran said, "that's a pity to hear, about not being able to trust your own men."

"If I had a say, many wouldn't be alive to actually be my men. Considering what a lot of them have done in their past lives."

"At least you and Jeor are able to stomach it and let the past remain in the past. I remember the last time a criminal tried to join my Oathbound. When authorities came for him, I dealt out the justice personally."

"So, will you?" Benjen asked looking to Joran.

"I think I can keep one eye open for the boy, make sure he's still kicking before I head home." Joran said.

"I appreciate it," Benjen said, offering his hand to Joran.

Taking it and giving the other man's hand a firm shake, Joran parted ways with Benjen after the cage made landfall until the evening when he would sup with the brothers of the Night's Watch in their Common Hall. After dinner, the young Mormont would return to his rooms for the evening, and when the morning came, he would go to see the First Ranger off alongside his grandfather.

Walking alongside Jeor and Benjen, who led a black horse packed for his northward journey towards a gate that led to a tunnel that had been carved out at the base of The Wall, Joran listened as his grandfather said to the First Ranger, "good luck in your hunting, Benjen. I'll pray that you aren't kept out in the wilds and cold of the north for too long."

"I appreciate the sentiment, Jeor. But we both know that prayers don't amount to much up here," Benjen said before turning to the Lord Commander. "I'll do my best to find out what I can. Hopefully I can return with information that could be of use to ward off this oncoming storm."

"Just return, Benjen. We've lost enough good men already, don't even think of making me add your name to that list," Jeor said in a commanding tone.

Saying nothing else to the Old Bear, Benjen offered up a gloved hand to Jeor and said "I wouldn't dream of it."

After the two men had shaken hands, Joran moved closer to Benjen and offered his own hand to the First Ranger, saying, "good luck, Benjen. Try and stay warm while your out there. Last thing anyone needs is an icicle manning The Wall."

"Don't have to tell me twice, Joran," Benjen said before taking the young Mormont's hand. "Look after Jon."

"I will."

After releasing Joran's hand, Benjen climbed onto the saddle of his steed and looking down at the younger man, said, "I'll be seeing you, lad. If not before you leave, then perhaps next time you come up here to help us when the storm comes south."

"Either way, make sure you take care, Benjen."

Receiving an affirmative nod from the First Ranger, Joran watched as Benjen turned his horse toward the gate way and headed into the icy tunnel that would shoot him out north of The Wall. After the ranger disappeared into the darkness of the underway, there came a bad feeling in the young Mormont's gut that he couldn't describe. Like he knew that a dead man was riding out instead of a friend alive and well.

"Don't think too much on it, lad," Jeor said beside Joran, as though sensing his grandson's angst. "Out of all the Rangers under my command, Benjen is the most capable among them. He'll be back before you know it."

"Aye, hopefully I can bid him a proper farewell when I embark home," Joran said. But, despite the confident words from Jeor, the young Mormont's gut feeling never left him. And, despite Benjen's words, the boy offered up a silent prayer to the Old Gods to watch over the man, who he considered a friend.

…

Almost two months had passed, and there had been no sign or word of Benjen Stark's whereabouts. Guessing that ranging missions could take anywhere from days to weeks, Joran didn't pay any attention to the passing of time until Jon Snow brought it to his attention. Having been approached in private, the boy had asked the young Mormont if he had any word about his uncle. When Joran had truthfully told Jon that he hadn't, the lad expressed his concern for Benjen's safety when he revealed that the older man had told him that he would be back by his name day. The day that Jon had approached Joran about the matter had been five days after.

Assuring Jon that Benjen was alright, Joran advised the boy that he shouldn't dwell too long on it, noting to him that his uncle was an experienced warrior and he could handle himself. Taking the faith in his uncle into consideration, the boy left the matter alone for a time, whereas Mormont on the other hand decided to ask after the situation to his grandfather. But, despite his higher standing in the Watch, Jeor hadn't received any information on Benjen from any of the other castles along The Wall. When Joran heard these words from his grandfather, he felt a cold feeling in his gut that the First Ranger had ran into something he couldn't handle. Wildlings…or worse.

Keeping his thoughts of realism to himself, Joran went about his days on The Wall as usual, with the inclusion of asking after Benjen to Jeor in the mornings and making it a point to check up on Jon Snow as he had promised. With this change though, the young Mormont soon began to learn more about his charge as he continued to watch over him.

Jon Snow was, to say the least, a quiet boy who kept to himself mostly, save for when chores were tasked out and he was around his fellow recruits. While acting as the younger man's silent guardian, Joran would occasionally find him wandering about Castle Black with his direwolf Ghost, which appeared to be the only friend the lad had there. This statement went beyond personal incite and was plainly visible to Mormont.

Although Jon was right down there with the rest of the Night's Watch recruits in status, he seemed to shine when it came to the physical aspect of the order: fighting. Everyday since Benjen's departure, Joran watched the bastard boy train with his peers, and beat each and every one of them, regardless of how much older or bigger they were. With each fight that was won though, there seemed to be another grudge bearer against Jon.

It was after one particular training session, when Jon had injured one recruit, Grenn if memory served, that Joran noticed him and three others with scores to settle, follow the bastard boy in the direction of his sleeping cell.

Quick and silent, Joran followed the group through Castle Black until they came upon Jon in the hallway that lay before the door to the cell. The four older boys had surrounded the younger, and the one called Grenn had begun to throw insults at the bastard. His presence unnoticed by the recruits, Joran steadily made his way down the hall and intentionally allowed his footfalls to land heavily upon the stone floor in order to make enough noise to warn the lot of them that they weren't alone.

The first to notice Joran was Jon, and after they realized that their prey was looking elsewhere, the other boys turned to find the giant Mormont steadily creeping towards them.

"Is there a problem here, lads," Joran asked, his voice hard in the passageway despite his mouth being covered by a scarf.

"No, Lord," the one called Grenn spoke up first. "We were just talking with Lord Snow."

'Lord Snow' was a nickname given to Jon by Castle Black's master-at-arms Ser Alliser Thorne as a means to make fun of the fact the boy was a bastard.

Coming to a halt before the group, Joran, standing taller than all of them, looked directly at Grenn and asked him, "do you think me a fool, boy?"

"No, Lord," Grenn said, his tone and demeanor becoming that of a frightened child before Joran's eyes.

"Do you know who I am?" Joran asked. When Grenn nodded, he growled, "That's good, because I wouldn't want to think someone like me a fool either. Now tell me, what business do you have with Jon? And don't leave anything out."

"We…" Grenn hesitated before the larger man.

Giving the boy all the time that he needed to answer, Joran eventually received one.

"We were intending to do harm to Lord Snow, Lord."

"Why?" Joran asked.

"Because he's a prick," Grenn said, spitting the words out through his teeth.

"And?" Joran plainly asked, ignoring the outburst.

"Lord?"

"And you think that gives you reason and rite to harm him. A boy just like you who is soon to swear the oath to join the Night's Watch. To become a brother to each of you here."

When Grenn just looked dumbly at Joran, he continued. "Brothers aren't supposed to hurt each other. Regardless of if one of them is a prick, brothers are supposed to watch each other's backs. Protect one another. None of you here may be related by blood, but when the time comes and you have to stand shoulder to shoulder to each other, you'll all be family regardless of where you've been or what you've done."

Taking one step closer to Grenn, so that the shorter boy had to crane his neck back to look up at him, Joran said, "now, I suggest you and your other brothers leave and think on what I've said to you. And if I find that you lot have ignored my words of wisdom; I'll be sure to personally knock said wisdom into each of your skulls until you understand. You get it?"

Nodding, Grenn and his fellows answered, "yes Lord," before leaving Joran and Jon alone in the hallway.

Watching the other boys leave, Joran heard Jon say to his back after they were out of earshot, "I didn't need your help. I could've handled it."

Turning back to Jon, Joran disagreed, "you may know how to fight one on one, but those boys had both size and the numbers. You're lucky I have a nose for grudges, otherwise they would've had your skull caved in by now."

Huffing angrily at Joran's words, Jon said flatly, "luckily you were here then. Thank you. Now, if there's nothing else." The younger man started to turn away from Joran.

"You know those words I said to your future brothers weren't just for them," Joran said angrily, causing Jon to stop in his tracks and turn back around. "And from what I can see, you'd be wise to heed them."

"Those words are better said than done, especially with that lot," Jon said.

Shaking his head, Joran said, "perhaps they'd be a hell of a lot easier if you didn't make it easy for others to hate you."

"Everyone hates me because I'm better than them," Jon said in defense of his position while pointing an angry finger at his chest.

"You only_ think_ your better than everyone else," Joran said, his voice getting louder and harsher. "And that's only because you've been trained. No one else has had the pleasure of being taught by an anointed knight like Rodrik Cassel, or raised in the house of a prominent family.

"As far as I've seen, you've humiliated and shamed each and every one of your fellow recruits over and over again since you've been here. How is anyone else supposed to compete with you without a background like yours?"

Met with only silence from Jon, Joran then knocked his point home and said, "to everyone else here, you are a bastard, sure, but you're also a bully. Do you prefer it to be that way, with men who are going to stand shoulder to shoulder to you when standing in whatever blood and shit comes your way?"

Shaking his head, Jon answered with a quiet, "no."

Moving closer to Jon, Joran put a hand on the boy's shoulder and said, "if that's the case, then you'd better find a better way to interact with your future brothers, or else get used to sleeping with a dagger under your pillow and taking Ghost with you everywhere you go."

Relinquishing his hold on Jon, Joran left him to think on his words in private, cause in the end, he had to make the choice to change, the choice couldn't be made for him.

…

Cooling off after his interaction with Jon and the recruits, Joran took his supper with Jeor. The mystery dish served was a thick porridge, littered with meat and vegetables in a bowl for each man. Eating in silence, the only sound that was made in the Lord Commander's office was the crackle of the fire and the occasion annoyingly loud caw for corn that came from Jeor's pet raven.

After the two had finished their supper and set aside their bowls, Jeor spoke, "I've received word from Winterfell. The Stark boy you befriended down there; Bran is awake."

His eyebrows shooting up in surprise at the news, Joran, having only thought of Bran sparingly during his time at The Wall, "I'm glad to hear it. The Stark family must be overjoyed."

"Aye, they probably are," Jeor stood up from his seat by the fire and moving over to his desk, he retrieved the letter. Returning to the hearth, he then offered the message to Joran. "Here, take it."

Accepting the letter, Joran asked, "why?"

"I know how you've been watching over Benjen's nephew, this Jon Snow," Jeor said as he sat back down in his chair near the fire. "From what I can tell, you're probably the only friend he has here, and I think it would be more appropriate if you gave him the good news."

"It would probably cheer him up after the events of the day," Joran said while flipping the message around in his hands.

"What happened?"

After Joran had explained what had happened earlier between himself, Jon, and the other recruits to his grandfather, as well as his words to the boys, Jeor then said, "hard truths and words are necessary up here. I'm glad that you were able to stop anything from happening. Last thing the watch needs is its recruits killing each other."

"Aye," Joran said in agreement. "You know, I got the idea of talking them down from you."

"Did you now?"

"Yeah. I used to knock sense into the men and women who serve under me with violent actions rather than words. But, over the years I learned that violence isn't always a good way to go about things, making others leave more often than stay, and I started to think about how I could be a better leader to my men. I talked to Maege about how you used to be when it came to the men who served under you. She said that you treated each man as though they were your own sons, you gave them respect when it was due and punishment when it was necessary. So, I took after your example and started treating the others who chose to follow me like they were my brothers and sisters. Pat them on the back when they do well and knock their heads together when they do wrong."

"I'm glad," Jeor said with a small smile on his face. "Pity that Jorah couldn't hold to those teachings while I _was _there. Perhaps if he had, he might not have done the things he did, or, at least have had enough honor to take the black."

"He wasn't the man you thought he was, and he still isn't," Joran said.

Becoming silent for a moment, Jeor spoke up again by saying, "you'd best get down to the Common Hall and give that to the Snow boy. Brighten up his day a bit."

Standing up from his chair, Joran, before he moved past Jeor to leave, stopped beside his grandfather and placed a hand on his shoulder. "It isn't your fault, grandfather. You did all you could for him while he was around, and it's his own fault for not learning after your own example. Don't blame yourself."

Patting Joran's hand where it lay, Jeor looked up to his grandson and said, "I won't. Good night Joran."

"Goodnight," Joran responded before leaving to deliver the news to Jon.

…

**Whew, my goodness. Sorry for the long wait everyone. I've been bouncing back and forth between this story and my own personal novel for the past two months and its been a tough time trying to do both at the same time and not mix anything up. Now, just to give everyone a heads up, I'm going to be visiting family next week so the next chapter after this one might not be coming out faster. Please forgive me, I'm not bailing on you guys, just needing to visit people I haven't seen in a long time while they're still around. As always, give me any constructive criticism that may help make my writing better, if you just want to say "Joran sucks as a character" I'll be an adult and ignore it cause I am my own worst critic thank you very much and I don't need anyone hating on my character just because GOT Season 8 rubbed them the wrong way. You have my appreciation for your patience and I hope everyone has a good day/night.**


	7. Chapter 7

Book 1: Blood in the South

Chapter 7: Southbound Surprises

Joran

The following morning, Joran, standing with his grandfather Jeor, witnessed the Night's Watch recruits conduct their morning practice under the instruction of Ser Alliser Thorne, as well as one other individual: Jon Snow. After the young Mormont had delivered the news about Bran, he had witnessed an immediate change to the bastard. Where Jon had been cold and full of anger before, there in the Common Hall he had become warm and full of happiness. So much so that Joran had even offered to help the boy Grenn learn how to fight, much to Alliser Thorne's open skepticism.

Watching as Jon helped his fellow's then, Joran almost couldn't believe how quickly the recruits were able to improve under their young teacher.

"Seems like your words and the news you gave the boy really turned him around," Jeor said next to Joran, causing the younger Mormont to turn away from the events below them.

"More the news about his brother than my harsh words," Joran said in partial agreement. "It seems that Thorne might be out of a job if Jon keeps this up."

"I wouldn't count on it," Jeor said. "Alliser's methods may not be as accommodating as this, Jon Snow's, but they are necessary to help the younger members of the Night's Watch prepare for…harsh realities."

"Hm. I suppose that makes sense. Put a man who's been in the thick of it in charge of teaching younger men who don't have a clue what's waiting for them and he'll paint them a good picture. They may not turn out as you expect though, if you put a cruel man in charge."

"It's necessary. It'll toughen them up enough to meet whatever comes first. Wildlings, winter…or otherwise," Jeor said before patting Joran on the shoulder. "Come with me, I need to talk to you in private."

Taking one more look to the gathered recruits, Joran turned from them then and followed his grandfather.

…

Back in The Lord Commander's office, Joran stood across from a Jeor sitting behind his desk when he began to speak.

"I have a favor to ask of you, lad."

Surprised at the fact that his grandfather would even need to ask for anything from him when he would help with anything Jeor needed, Joran said, "of course, grandfather. You just have to name it."

"Do you remember when I spoke to you about fixing the decline in the Night's Watch?"

"Aye, you said that you would talk to Tyrion Lannister about the subject, see if he could convince King Robert to send more men to The Wall."

"Well, he intends to leave for home tomorrow and tonight, I intend to invite him to supper and broach the subject with him. If our talk goes well, help will come."

"And if it doesn't?"

Not answering the question, even though the answer was obvious to both Mormonts, Jeor continued, "the favor I would ask of you lad, would be to travel among the escort I plan on sending south with Tyrion and his men, until Winterfell at least. And, while you're travelling with him, I'd ask you try to befriend him and help our cause by reminding him what's coming."

"Hm," Joran hummed in thought. "It shouldn't be too hard to do, I suppose."

"Why's that?"

"I've spoken to him somewhat. Not here, on the road, and he finds me to be 'admirable.'"

"Strange, I thought he preferred the company of women," Jeor said in jest.

"Heh, I don't mean in that sense, Jeor," Joran said with a smile. "From a distance, I think he respects me. More than I do of him anyway. In a way, sending me to remind him of the trouble that's coming is a good idea."

"So, you'll help me and the Watch in this regard?"

"Aye, I'll help. But I can't guarantee that his respect for me will help him remember beyond Winterfell, or convince the King if he makes it to Kings Landing without incident." Joran said these words optimistically, although his mind was full of thoughts of cynicism. He knew that regardless of if Tyrion actually did make it to King's Landing with the Watch's best interest at heart, got the information to King Robert through, perhaps his brother, it would be a long shot for the Baratheon King to take heed of his words because what was a Wildling army north of The Wall to a southern King, if not just a faraway nuisance.

"Well, any help is enough these days," Jeor said before rising from his seat at his desk and turning to a chest that sat behind his workplace.

Watching as Jeor opened the box and shuffled a few things around, Joran looked on in silent surprise when a saw what his grandfather found and produced. The older man turning to face him, the young Mormont beheld the heirloom of their house, Longclaw.

"When I heard that you were coming from the letter Lowthar sent, I dug it up. Wanted to give it to you before you left," Jeor said as he walked around the desk to stand before his grandson. Presenting the sheathed sword to Joran, The Old Bear said, "better now than never, eh?"

"Grandfather…" Joran said before lifting a hand to push Longclaw away. "I shouldn't, it doesn't belong to me."

"It does, even though you won't admit it," Jeor said in disagreement, pushing the family heirloom of House Mormont against Joran's hand. "It is your birthright to have it. Just as it is your birthright to rule Bear Island."

"Those are birthrights I don't deserve," Joran said. "What I am… what I'm capable of –."

"Have helped others more than hurt them," Jeor interrupted angrily. "You don't think you've earned it; you don't think that you deserve it, but I know otherwise."

Lowering his hand, Joran allowed Jeor to press Longclaw into his chest, and he took hold of it when his grandfather let go of it.

"Maybe in time, you'll realize it," Jeor said before patting Joran on the shoulder and walking out of his quarters, leaving his grandson alone for time, to look at Longclaw.

It had been the first time Joran had ever held the sword, and it had been years since he had last seen it, sitting sheathed in his father's empty study when Jorah had fled Bear Island. Shifting Longclaw in his hands, he inspected the handle. It still had the iron bear head as its pommel, its fur spiked and its maw open in a silent roar. Carefully lifting his right hand, Joran gripped the sword's handle and only slightly drew it out from the scabbard. He was met with the Valyrian blade of dark steel with grey ripples that showed in the light of the room. It was both a thing of beauty to Joran, and potentially a thing of great slaughter. Being made of Valyrian steel, Longclaw's blade was strong and sharper than most blades. In a regular man's hands, the sword wouldn't be able to amount to anything more than what a normal steel blade could. But, in The Berserker's…

Slamming the blade back into its scabbard, Joran vanquished the bloody thoughts brought on by seeing the sword and stomped out of his grandfather's office.

…

Transferring Longclaw to his room, Joran ignored Osha's questions about the sword and informed her that they would be leaving in the morning. After he broke the news to his prisoner, he then left his room to go and speak to another individual about his imminent departure.

"You're leaving," Jon asked.

"Aye," Joran answered. "I'll be acting as an escort for Tyrion Lannister as far as Winterfell. While I'm with him, I'll be doing a favor for my grandfather and The Watch by reminding the little man about bringing the organization's case of depletion to the ears of the King."

"I doubt he'd forget," Jon said in defense of Tyrion. "But it is good that you're helping Commander Mormont."

"He may have a new family here all in black, but we on Bear Island stay true to our own who deserve it," Joran said confidently. "I only wish I could do more before there comes any sign of trouble."

"You could always join the Black," Jon suggested with a small smirk. "You fit in here well enough."

"Not a bad idea I suppose," Joran said, stroking his scarf covered chin in mock thought. "But I know where I belong. And, it isn't here."

"Well, for what it's worth," Jon said before offering his hand to Joran. "I'm glad to have met you, Joran."

"I doubt this will be the last we see each other, Jon," Joran said before taking the young man's hand. "And just to be sure you live long enough until we meet again, here's some advice. Make as many friends as you can here, because when times get tough, misery loves company and it's easier to get through such times surrounded by friends. And, if times get too tough, always stay too stubborn to quit and survive."

"Thanks," Jon said. But before he released Joran's hand, he requested of the older man, "when you reach Winterfell, could you check up on my brother Bran, make sure that he is doing well."

"I will," Joran said, having already intended to see Bran, due to his interest in finding out his side of the story in regards to his fall from the tower weeks back.

As Joran turned to leave, Jon called after him, "Godspeed, Joran."

…

That evening after taking his last supper, Joran made one more trip up to the top of The Wall to take in the view one last time before his morning departure. Standing there, at what the men of Westeros would consider the edge of the civilized world, he found that even in the darkness of the night, all that he saw still took his breath away.

"I see that great minds think alike," Joran turned around at the voice to find Tyrion Lannister standing behind him.

"Tyrion," Joran said in mild surprise. "Wasn't expecting to see you here. I'd have thought that you'd still be supping with my grandfather?"

"I was for a while," Tyrion said as he stepped closer to Joran and the edge of The Wall. "But supper is over sadly and on my way to my room I found the sudden urge to come to the top of The Wall and take one last look, since I doubt, I'd ever come back just to look off the edge of the world."

When Tyrion came to stand by his side, Joran returned his full attention to the sight.

"I was happy to hear at supper that the two of us are to become travel companions again." Tyrion said, breaking the brief moment of silence that the two had shared.

Nodding, Joran looked down at Tyrion and said, "my grandfather wanted to keep your life in the best hands he knew and presently, those are mine."

"I am honored," Tyrion said, looking up at Joran. "Aside from Jaimie, I doubt that I would feel safer anywhere else."

Looking back out and down towards the haunted forest, Tyrion asked Joran, "do you think that the Watch has a chance when the Wildlings come?"

Briefly taken aback by the suddenness of the question, Joran lied and said, "I think they do. Their chances would be even better when the King sent them reinforcements from the south."

"Don't lie to me, Mormont," Tyrion said snidely. "You're a smart man, smarter than you let on. You and I both know better."

"What do you mean by better," Joran inquired, turning his head to look at Tyrion again.

"I mean that unless Robert sent an army of prisoners north, this Mance Rayder and his Wildling army would find little difficulty in breaking through and invading Westeros."

Angered by Tyrions words of realism, even though they mirrored his own thoughts, Joran growled, "with Jeor taking lead, the Watch _will_ hold."

"Hold long enough for some help to arrive?" Tyrion asked.

Not answering, Joran enabled Tyrion to continue. "It's alright to be a realist, Joran. Even when it hurts to tell the truth that it brings us."

Coming to fully face Tyrion, Joran said, "when the storm breaks and they call for aid, they'll get help, even if I have to march my Oathbound here to help weather it. Without an army at our backs."

"And you would give up the lives of your own men to save the realm," Tyrion asked, turning to Joran. "How noble."

"My men would die for me if I asked them to, as I would trade my life for each of them and my family if your Stranger came calling for them in turn." In Joran's mind, the realm could burn so long as those he loved were safe, but Tyrion didn't need to know that.

"I believe you," Tyrion said. Halting his talk of realism, the shorter man raised a hand and offered an apology. "I'm sorry, let's not start our trip on bad terms."

Knowing that Tyrion wasn't entirely sincere and was only offering the apology so he could live a little longer, Joran, not desiring to dash any small chance that Jeor had for help from King's Landing, took Tyrion's hand, enveloping it in his larger one, and said, "I accept your apology."

"I will do what I can for your grandfather and The Night's Watch," Tyrion said as they shook. "I promise."

"I'll hold you to that," Joran said after releasing Tyrion's hand.

Sharing each other's company in silence for a time as they took a final look outwards from The Wall, Joran and Tyrion eventually returned to the ground and retired for the evening.

…

The morning coming quickly, Joran and Osha left their room, obtained supplies for their journey, and made their way to the stables to meet up with Tyrion and his guardsmen. When they arrived however, there were no signs of either southern guards or dwarf among the horses. Joran, knowing that this was a typical occurrence from what he had seen from Tyrion and his guards on their journey from Winterfell, disregarded the absent southerners and began prepping his horse.

By the time Joran was finished saddling the horse that he and Osha would be riding, the guardsman had arrived, but no Tyrion. Not desiring to watch the guards saddle their horses, and no doubt Tyrion's while they were at it, Joran led his steed out of the stables with Osha in tow.

Welcomed again by the freezing air of the morning, Joran and Osha stepped out across the open courtyard of Castle Black and stood there alone for a time in silence. After a few moments of listening to nothing but the soft sigh of the wind, the young Mormont looked to his wildling prisoner, who stood close to the horse's side, keeping warm and stroking the animal fondly. Taking his eyes of Osha, Joran looked towards The Wall in thought.

"Would you want to go back," Joran asked without looking at Osha.

"What?" Osha said confused.

Turning to look at her, Joran explained, "if I were to, _release _you for the information you provided for me, the only sensible place I'd set you loose would be back across The Wall. But, considering what might be up there, I'd want to know where you'd stand on it."

"Why would you care about what I think," Osha asked. "I've been nothing but your prisoner since we met."

"I just thought that if I put you back out there, and you died from one cause or another, how it would feel like a waste of my time," Joran said matter-of-factly.

Taking a moment to consider her next words, Osha then simply said, "no, I wouldn't want to go back, and even if I did, there's nothing left for me to go back to."

Slightly curious as to know what she meant, Joran's thoughts were halted by the sight of his grandfather stepping into the courtyard and making his way towards the stables with Tyrion waddling by his side. Catching Jeor's eye before they made it to the stable, the older man parted ways with the little Lannister and moved in the direction of his grandson.

Coming to stand before Joran, Jeor said, "I'm glad that Lannisters aren't known for being early risers, otherwise I might have missed you."

"I knew I would've had to wait for Tyrion to get out of bed," Joran said, stepping closer to his grandfather. "But, if he had gotten an early rise, I would've gone to meet you on my own to bid you farewell."

"And I'd feel warmer for it," Jeor said with a smile.

Returning the smile through his scarf, Joran extended his hand out to Jeor and said, "it was good to see you again, grandfather. And I'm glad that this time around we had a better time of it."

Taking the hand, Jeor shook it firmly and said, "I'm glad I got to see you too, Joran."

Maintaining his hold, Joran pulled Jeor into a fierce embrace.

"If trouble comes sooner than you think, I'll be the first one here to help you face it," Joran said in a whisper to Jeor.

"And I'd feel safer to know you were by my side, lad," Jeor responded.

Pulling back, Joran looked his grandfather in the eye and said, "take care of yourself, Jeor. The world would be a far colder place without you here."

"You do the same, Joran," Jeor said before slapping his grandson on the arm. "And next time, don't take so long to come back and see me."

"I won't and I will," Joran said, relinquishing his hold on Jeor just when Tyrion and his men walked out of the stables astride their horses.

"Mormont, so glad to see you're up at this hour," Tyrion said in a tired voice of sarcasm.

"It's good to see that you're up too, Tyrion," Joran said, looking at the smaller man atop his horse. "Was almost afraid I'd have to leave without you and your men, get a head start on the road."

"So happy at least one of us is ready to meet the day," Tyrion said before looking from Joran towards the road south. "I'll wait for you on the road. Lord Commander, it was a pleasure to make your acquaintance and receive your hospitality."

"Pleasure was all mine, Lord Tyrion," Jeor said in response. "May you have a safe journey home."

"With present company, I think I'll be safer than a babe in its mother's arms," Tyrion said before urging his horse onward.

After Tyrion and his guards went on their way, Joran helped Osha onto their horse and before he took to the saddle, he turned back to Jeor and said, "farewell until next we meet, grandfather."

"Until next we meet, son," Jeor said in return.

Offering one last nod to Jeor, Joran swung up into the saddle behind Osha and rode out to join Tyrion and his men on the road. He only looked back to Jeor once before they lost sight of one another, holding onto the hope that he would actually see the Old Bear, alive and well, again.

…

The first day of their journey passing by quickly and without incident, the party of five made good headway and set up camp off the Kingsroad a mile east of Queenscrown.

Setting up his and Osha's tent in quick fashion with the wildling woman's help, Joran noticed that the Lannister guardsmen seemed to be dogging it between setting up Tyrion's tent and their own while the imp merely sat on the ground reading. Upon witnessing the two buffoons struggling, Mormont was reminded about one of the reasons he disliked southerners. No sense of urgency when out in the wild.

Growling in irritation at the display, Joran merely shook his head and moved to start preparing a place for a fire. Digging the pit in short order in a space that sat between the tents, he immediately stood when he was finished and moved out to scour the area for wood for the fire, taking Osha with him to help.

Walking side by side across the terrain, Joran and Osha had little trouble gathering two bundles of wood from the area that surrounded their camp. After they were satisfied with the size of their respective stacks, the two began to make their return trip.

"Lord," Osha said, making the first sound between the two since venturing out from camp.

"Yeah," Joran asked.

"I've been thinking about what you said earlier, about how the only way you'd release me would be by sending me back beyond The Wall," Osha said with a hint of worry to her tone.

"And?"

"Well, since you didn't just shove me out to the other side, I was wondering. If you aren't going to release me, what is going to happen to me now?"

Finding it to be a fair question, Joran answered plainly, "well for starters, since you told me the truth, you get to keep your life."

"What about my freedom?" Osha asked.

"Like I told you before, the only sensible place I'd let you go at is back north," Joran said. "I said that you could live, not that you'd be free."

"Why not?"

"Because, in my eyes and the eyes of The Gods, you're a criminal, not to mention the fact that you're too dangerous to let loose across the country. And on your own, my promise to allow you to keep your life would no doubt be squandered the moment you ran into trouble with outlaws or animals.

"So, in order to keep my word and you alive, I've decided to keep you on as a servant," Joran hadn't made this decision lightly. After Jeor had told him everything that he needed to know to confirm what information Osha had given him back on Bear Island, he had thought on how he'd handle the wildling woman. Joran's first instinct was to send his former prisoner packing back across The Wall, no questions asked. But he ended up rolling it over in his head for a week before realizing that if he sent Osha back north, one of a few things would happen. One is that she'd somehow find a way to link back up with her people and either try to sail back south, causing trouble somewhere away from Bear Island, or turn into another soldier for Mance Rayder to use against The Watch. The second fate, that seemed more likely to him from Osha's earlier reactions when speaking about them, was that she'd be killed by either beast or…one of the Others, making the promise he made to spare her life, seem almost pointless in either case. In the end, Joran made up his mind and decided to keep Osha as a kind of, servant to him. "At least until a time comes when I decide to release you."

"And when would that time be?" Osha asked.

"Not sure," Joran said before turning to look at the woman beside him. "Maybe when the day comes that I trust a Wildling."

When Osha gave him a look that conveyed a sense of unhappiness towards his decision, Joran, not believing what he was saying, went on, "look on the bright side, I'm not going to kill you, and as long as you stick with me, no on else would even think of trying."

Returning to the camp in silence, Joran and Osha let the Lannister guards start the fire when they arrived with the wood.

…

After three more days of travelling south, Joran began to feel a sense of unease on the Kingsroad, almost as if their group was being followed and watched from afar. Keeping his eye out for trouble, he scanned the surrounding area while riding and stood watch in the evening. Joran had thought he spied something on the eighth day when it only turned out to be a herd of deer racing through the vegetation, no doubt trying to avoid some predator lurking in the wilderness. The sense of unease remaining with him after the spook, he took to the habit of taking a hold of his old longsword during the day, and keeping his axe drawn at night during his watches.

On the sixth night, Joran, his only company the axe by his side, silent sigh of the wind in the distance and the crackling fire at his back, sat atop a fallen tree and looked out into the darkness of the surrounding woodland in search of whatever he believed was following them. An hour passed by before he heard something besides the sounds that came with the silence of the night, but that sound came from his back. Twisting around in his seat, Joran found the culprit behind the disturbance walking towards him, wrapped up in a blanket.

Stepping over the log and coming to sit beside him, Osha, when she saw he was eyeing him, said plainly to his unspoken question, "I got tired of waiting for you to come to bed.'

Curious as to why it seemed she was worried about him, Joran asked, "what's it to you if I make it back to the tent or not?"

"I'm not worried about you, more about your body heat," Osha stated. "Though these southern nights are warmer than what I'm used to, they still feel like a bitch to sleep through without another body."

Annoyed at the fact that Osha referred to the place they were in as south, Joran let it slide and returned to looking out into the distance.

"Why are you keeping watch?"

Saving himself the trouble of listening to any pestering he would receive from the wildling if he just ignored her and kept looking out into the trees, Joran answered her question. "I've been having an uneasy feeling these past few days. Almost as though there are eyes on us. I'm just making sure that those eyes stay away and not come at us with blades while we sleep."

"Well, good thing I'm here then," Osha said cockily.

"Is that so," Joran said, looking back to Osha with a cocked eyebrow.

"Aye, if they're scared of you, I'm sure that a crazed looking wildling woman next to you will give the eyes a better reason to keep their distance."

Scoffing at her confidence, Joran told her, "your time would be better spent resting in the tent, we still have many miles to cover before we reach Winterfell, or a warmer place to sleep for that matter."

"I doubt if I went back, I'd be able to," Osha said.

"Why would that be?"

"Do you remember what I said, back at The Wall, about there being nothing left for me to go back to," Osha asked in turn.

"Aye," Joran had found her words to be strange and had intended to ask after their meaning when Tyrion and Jeor had arrived back at Castle Black.

"And do you remember what I swore on back on your beach, when you caught me," Osha asked.

Thinking back on their first encounter, Joran said, "some of it, something about a man named Bruni?"

"My late husband," Osha confirmed.

"What does he have to do with your sleeping problem?"

Taking a deep breath, Osha's look became one of sadness when she began to answer. "The day Bruni died; he had been gone for weeks. Everyone thought he'd simply, left me. But I knew better than the lot of them.

"One night, he came back to our hut. But, before I could even say hello, he grabbed my throat with hands as cold as ice," Osha paused her story, and Joran noted that her body began to shake despite the blanket she had around her. "When I began to beg him to stop, I saw that he had eyes bluer than clear sky, and just as empty of anything, any emotion.

"Before he did me in, I managed to grab hold of a knife, and I rammed it deep into his heart. He didn't even flinch. After struggling with him, I eventually got away. Only way I stopped him from coming after me was to burn down our hut with him inside. Since then, I've always been scared for my life when night falls."

"You haven't had that problem since you've been my prisoner," Joran said, finding it a curious thing that she seemed to sleep just well while around him or in a cage. "A sane person would think you'd lose sleep if you were always around a man who promised to be your executioner."

"Well, then I must be crazy then," Osha said. "Cause since I've been around you, I've never felt safer."

Smiling in amusement at Osha's words beneath his scarf, Joran said, "I guess you are."

Before any more words could be shared between the Wildling and the Northman, Joran heard a twig snapping in the distance, causing his head to whip back around in search of the source.

"You hear that," Osha asked, following his line of sight.

Nodding, Joran stood up from his perch and told her, "stay here."

Taking his axe from where it sat by his side, Joran moved carefully out into the distant woodland, peering through the dark to find what had mad the sound. Passing tree after tree, he checked behind each of them to make sure that there were no bodies hiding behind them. After passing what felt like the twelfth set of trees, Joran gave up and came to the assumption that it must have just been some animal, one that he must have scared off back into the night.

Turning his back to the darkness, Joran began to move back towards camp when he heard something behind him. It was strangely familiar. Almost like…the rush of running footsteps.

Twisting around in a flash, Joran knocked away a knife thrust to his body from a shadow in the dark. Advancing on the figure, he swung his axe viciously towards it, barely missing it when it jumped back out of his reach. Before he could continue his assault, Joran saw four more figures walk into view from the trees. Each of them had a weapon that flashed in the dark, there was a short sword, a hatchet, another knife that came to stand beside the first attacker, and a longsword.

"I'd watch that axe lads," the figure with the longsword said to the rest while his blade sat leaning against his shoulder. "It's killed more men than us combined a hundred times over."

"Who are you," Joran demanded, keeping his axe raised for a swing, waiting for one of them to make the first move. "What do you want?"

"We're no one, Joran Mormont," the man with the longsword said. "And we're here for you. Or, at least a dead you."

Smiling evilly beneath his scarf, Joran growled out to his would-be killers, "you're free to try."

"Get him," the man with the sword ordered.

The gang descending upon him in quick fashion all at once, Joran swung his axe around wildly in order to convince them all to keep their distance, lest they want an axe to face. His body twisting around with his move, he took in his target options and quickly chose. Stepping in the direction of the man with the hatchet, Joran's follow up swing took off the man's hand when he counter-swung. Leaving the man screaming, he moved on. Dodging the multitude of swings that sought his blood, Joran made it to his next victim, the man with the short sword. Sidestepping the man's thrust, he gripped his axe with both hands, rushed closer to his assailant and with a mighty thrust, drove his axe head into the man's face, caving in his skull with a loud crack.

"Argh," Joran growled upon feeling something stabbing him in the back of his right shoulder.

Twisting around and swinging with a loud roar, Joran barely clipped the blade of the swordsman before he retreated back to the side of the two knifemen.

Huffing angrily as pain began to shoot from his shoulder down into his arm, Joran kept his focus and retook a battle stance, his axe ready in case they all tried to come at him again.

"That must hurt," the leader said as his last two cronies twirled their blades in anticipation for the coming kill. "Then again, man like you, you must be accustomed to that kind of pain."

"More than you can ever understand," Joran growled through bared teeth, his scarf having dropped low to reveal his fangs. "And the funny thing is, when I'm in the right state of mind, I barely feel it." The smell of blood, the rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins, it was all coming to him, and Joran knew that the monster inside him was close, so close to coming out. And he was going to let it have its due.

"Right, your moniker, The Berserker," the swordsman said with a nod of understanding. "I doubt it's going to be a problem for me and my boys to take care of."

"Heh…heh, heh, heh," starting to laugh maniacally, Joran, keeping one hand on his axe, brought a shaky hand up to his head as the beast within began to pound angrily in its cage, the anticipation for blood too good to resist. Looking through his fingers at the three men in front of him, he halted his laughter in order to speak, "you have no idea what you're dealing with."

…

"What are you waiting for, he's just one man," the leader said shakily to his last two comrades. "He can't take us all on at once, attack!"

The two knifemen came at him first, aiming to attack his flanks. And, The Berserker, removing his hand from his face, welcomed them eagerly.

Charging one way in a flash, The Berserker dodged the knife thrust to his body and grabbing the man by the throat, quickly punched his front axe blade into the man's face with enough force to cause it to go halfway into his skull. Then, retracting the blade and pushing the body aside, he turned to find the last knifeman coming for him, with the swordsman not far behind. Closing the distance with the closer of the two, The Berserker caught the knife thrust coming for him in the palm of his left hand. The blade pointing out of the back of his hand, he then closed his fingers around the hand of the other man, trapping him, and in one fluid motion, he slid the axe haft up in his right hand and then brought the axe head down upon the assailant, cleaving his skull in two.

Before he could retract his weapon, The Berserker saw the swordsman charging at him with a loud yell on his lips, bringing his sword up and down upon him. Adjusting his position, he caught the sword swing on the haft of his axe, holding one side with his right hand while the other end was being supported by the body of the dead knifeman. Kicking the swordsman back, The Berserker wrenched his axe free, causing brain matter and skull fragments to spray across the wood, and charged the swordsman.

"Raaagh," The Berserker roared, each of his swings barely being deflected by the sword blade of his last assailant, struggling to stay alive. It wasn't long before the other man's arms became numb and heavy from the effort of stopping the crazed man's blows, and his sword was knocked out of his grip.

The minute his sword hit the ground, the final assailant turned and started to run for his life through the dark wood in an attempt to escape The Berserker. But, before he could get too far, he was hit in the back by something heavy that brought him down hard.

"Ugh," the man gasped in pain as he looked over his shoulder to find that what had hit him was the bloody double bitted axe of The Berserker.

Stomping towards his limp victim, The Berserker came to stand above the man. Bending down and grabbing the bleeding man by his shoulders, he picked him up and dragged him over to a tree. And without a word, The Berserker shoved the man back against the tree, planting the opposite blade of his axe into the wood.

"Agh!" the man screamed in pain as the blade that was in his back went deeper into his body.

Enjoying the sight before him, The Berserker only took his eyes from it long enough to bring his bleeding hand up to his face in order to look at it in curiosity and then to the stab wound behind his right shoulder. He didn't like it when a foe was able to get the best of him, or his more docile half Joran. But, when it did happen, The Berserker knew how to make the ones responsible pay.

Taking his bleeding left hand and shoving it into the face of the trapped assailant, The Berserker began to press the man further back into the trunk of the tree. As the man screamed in horrifying pain, the axe blade inside him began to go deeper and deeper into his body, until it erupted out from the front of his torso.

The screams ended, The Berserker relinquished his grip on the man's face, leaving a bloody handprint, and simply stood staring at his work. His axe blade was covered in blood that dripped from its beard to the ground, the man's innards were exposed and slowly sliding out from the torso, and the man's face was frozen in a look of terror in the face of his death. To anyone else, this image would only serve as a reminder to the cruelty that men were capable of when it came to the death of an enemy. But to The Berserker, it was the art of war and death personified, and a proclamation to the world of his strength, proof of his power and dominance over others who would challenge him.

"Seven help us."

Spinning around to find Tyrion, his guards, and Osha looking upon his handiwork, The Berserker looked at them for only a moment before moving to where the assailant's longsword lay on the ground. Picking it up and turning to his travel companions, he started to stomp towards them with the intent to add them to his portrait of bodies and blood. But, before he could get too far, The Berserker felt something holding him back. It was Joran. He was pulling The Berserker back in. Before he could struggle against his better half, Joran got the better of him, reigned him in, and shut The Berserker back in his cage.

…

Gasping in exhaustion and pain, Joran felt his legs go out from under him and he fell to his knees. Propping himself up on the sword he had grabbed off the ground, he looked down at his left hand to find blood flowing out from both sides. Then, looking at the sight of everyone looking at him, Joran waved out to them weakly, "need some help here."

The first one to move was Tyrion, but before he could get to Joran a guardsman stopped him. "Stay back Lord."

"Aye, you saw what he just did," the other guardsman said, his hand reaching for his sword. "Could still be out of his mind, Lord."

"Please," Joran said before losing his grip on the sword and falling to all fours, his voice growing weaker. He lost too much blood already, and in his weakened state, if he didn't get back to camp and patch up his shoulder and his hand quickly, he was going to bleed out on the ground. "Help me."

Then, to his surprise, the only one to come move over to him was Osha, who huffed out angrily, "for pity's sake!"

Before Joran knew it, Osha grabbed his arm and pulled him up off the ground. Draping his arm over her shoulders, she allowed him to lean into her as they moved back to camp.

…

**Hello everyone, sorry for the long wait, but I've had some trouble trying to figure out where I should insert some important sub-plot points into my new story, and I think that this one has what I wanted woven into it very well, even if one of them that's not coming out until much later is a bit on the short side. Thanks for reading and please review. I OWN NOTHING! Except Joran. **


	8. Chapter 8

Book 1: Blood in the South

Chapter 8: Worth the Thought

The following morning after the attempt on his life, Joran, patched up after the night's events, traced back his steps through the forest with the help of the light in search of his axe. Upon arriving to the killing ground, he was met with a sight that he was all too familiar with. The ground littered with bodies, dried blood in the dirt, Joran the aftermath was always the same when he went berserk.

Walking among the bodies, Joran pushed his reminiscence on his more aggressive side out of his mind and replaced it with a thought that he wanted to apply to the scene. These brigands, these assailants, had been after him specifically last night, wanted him dead. Why though?

Looking over each of the bodies in turn as he sidestepped one after the other, Joran noted that none of them had the look of wildlings of them. They were poor smallfolk for sure, but not so poor that they were rapped in fur or stolen armor. And none of them had the look of Ironmen about them, although those bastards were just as poor as anyone on the mainland. Ruling out his natural enemies only slightly, Joran moved away from the bodies on the ground towards the one that was a little higher up.

The group's leader, still hanging on Joran's axe in the tree, looked blankly at him as he made his approach. Patting the body down in an attempt to try and find something that would lead him to the reason why they had tried to kill him. Finding a bulge in the dead man's coat, Joran opened it up to find a hefty pouch. Removing it from the pocket it sat in, he opened it. It was full of silver coins.

The men trying to kill Joran had been paid to, and although it was a reasonable answer to his question, it just led him to another. Who had paid them, to kill him?

Sounds of movement behind him causing him to halt his independent musings, Joran turned to slightly to find Osha walking towards him around the bodies.

"What are you doing here," Joran asked through his scarf.

"After what happened last night, I wanted to make sure someone was watching your back," Osha answered.

Slightly reluctant to believe her due to who she was, Joran felt his reluctance slip away from him upon remembering what she had did for him last night. Helping him back to camp, helping patch him up in his weakened state, Osha did more for him that night than he would ever imagine a wildling doing for someone like him. And she did more than the others in their camp had, which said a lot in Joran's mind.

Allowing Osha to stay with him, Joran returned his attention to the coin pouch.

"What do you have there," Osha asked.

Turning fully to her, Joran offered her the bag and said, "take a look for yourself."

Accepting the bag from him, Osha looked what was inside and Joran watched her jaw drop all the way to the ground. "By the Gods, these men could've been rich for the rest of their lives on this!"

"Maybe, if one of them betrayed the rest and took the money," Joran said in realism. "And if they lived long enough to spend it."

Turning back to the dead leader, Joran took hold of his body with his uninjured hand and ripped the corpse off of his axe. Throwing the body onto the ground, he heard Osha ask, "what does this mean?"

Ripping his axe out of the tree, Joran looked at the dried blood on the edge that was closest to him and answered her. "Someone with enough money, and enough reach, wants to kill me."

"Why?"

Turning around and moving closer to her, Joran merely said, "that's a good question," before thinking to himself, _hopefully I can get the answer to it before they try again. _

Keeping her grip on the pouch, Osha began to scan the ground.

"What are you doing," Joran asked. He got an answer when he watched Osha bend down to the ground and produce one of the dead men's knives.

"What do you intend to do with that," Joran asked.

"Well, I can't very well earn your trust if I'm unable to watch your back effectively, now can I," Osha answered cockily before moving away from him back towards camp. Before she could get too far though, Joran was upon her and he grabbed her wrist, halting her departure.

"Do you really expect me to trust you with a blade, do you think I'm that stupid," Joran demanded, all of his mistrust in Osha returning in an instant.

Twisting in his grip, Osha, fully facing Joran now, said confrontationally, "you trusted me enough with that needle and thread of yours last night, when you needed help getting patched."

Caught off guard by her words, Joran, knowing that she was in the right, released Osha's wrist and said, "alright. Make me regret it though, and I'll cut off your hands."

Without saying another word, Osha slid the blade into the belt of her dress and walked alongside Joran away from the killing ground, back to camp.

"Thank you, for what you did," Joran said, having neglected giving thanks to Osha last night.

"Don't mention it," Osha said in response without looking at him.

"You ever patch anyone up before," Joran asked, noting how steady Osha's hands had been when she stuck the needle into his skin last night.

"Aye, my husband and my older brother," Osha answered. "Him more than Burni though. He was a lot like you when he was younger, always got into one fight after another with anyone and anything that he came across that could offer him a challenge."

"Sounds like an interesting fellow."

"He is. And every time he left a scrap bloody and beaten, he'd always find his way to my hut and beg me to sow him up, since he didn't and still doesn't have a woman to do it besides me."

"He must love you dearly," Joran said in honesty.

"He does, or did before I left," Osha said in a huff.

Looking at Osha, Joran asked, "what happened?"

"He didn't agree with me leaving for the south, and I didn't agree with him staying beyond The Wall, working with Mance. Things got heated, we butted heads, and before we both knew it, we were saying goodbye and we each went on our own paths," Osha answered.

"Sorry I asked," Joran said, noting the sadness in Osha's voice.

"Don't be," Osha said in response to his words. "Knowing him, the big baby probably drank and laughed away his own sadness at me leaving."

"What about you," Joran asked.

Looking at him, Osha half-heartedly admitted, "I'm still working on it."

Leaving the subject alone at that, Joran and Osha regrouped with the others and continued on their journey south.

…

Riding all day, the group stopped again that evening at an area with less tree coverage. The minute they halted, Joran immediately helped Osha set up camp, despite his injuries. When the two of them finished setting up their own tent, Mormont was approached by Tyrion.

"Joran, um, could we take a walk," Tyrion asked.

"Sure," Joran said, moving over to the smaller man with Osha not far behind.

"Alone, please," Tyrion added when he saw Osha's actions.

Looking to Osha, Joran gave her a slight nod for her to stay before departing camp with Tyrion further down the Kingsroad.

When they were a good distance from camp and any unwanted ears, Tyrion started to talk. "Joran, I apologize for not coming to your aid the night before, I-."

"It's alright, Tyrion," Joran said. "I don't blame you, or your guards for being cautious, especially after what I almost did." Tyrion, at his taller friend's reference to the fact that he had almost taken a sword to the lot of them, went silent.

He didn't keep his silence for long though. "The way that you are, what you turn into. Does it happen often?"

"It depends," Joran said in answer.

"On what," Tyrion asked.

"On if I need to let it out. Sometimes it can creep up on me and I have to fight to keep it in. When that happens, I end up locking myself away someplace quiet and ride it out until it's over."

"Does it hurt," Tyrion inquired.

"It hurts when I try to keep it in. But when I let it out, no," Joran answered. "It's quite the opposite actually."

"Well, regardless of your feelings towards it, I'm glad that it was able to keep you alive," Tyrion said before he came to a stop on the road. "It would've been a shame to lose you to a band of lowlifes, and who knows what they would've done to the rest of us if you hadn't stopped them."

"I appreciate your sentiment," Joran said before adding in half-truth. "I think that someone sent them."

"What," Tyrion gasped in disbelief. "How do you know?"

Looking back to the camp briefly before turning back to Tyrion, Joran produced the pouch of coins for the dwarf's inspection. "The leader had this on him," Joran said as Tyrion took the pouch and began to thumb through its contents.

"There's enough here to make a poor man rich," Tyrion said before offering the pouch back to Joran.

"Do you know what it means," Joran asked, playing the fool with the expectation of finding out a possible suspect from Tyrion's perspective.

"It means one of many things my friend," Tyrion said before rubbing his gloved hands together as if in anticipation for something exciting.

"Care to elaborate," Joran asked, curious to know, though it was unlikely, if Tyrion had a suspect already in mind.

"These men came after us to try and kill one of us," Tyrion said. "And since my guards and your wildling are less than knowable folk, that means that the employer of the attackers wanted to kill either myself, or you."

"Why would anyone want to kill you," Joran asked sarcastically.

Brushing his friend's tone off in stride, Tyrion answered, "many reasons. I perhaps slept with the wrong woman in one of my drunken stupors. Paid someone else to kill the wrong man. Who knows? Are there any enemies that would pay someone else to come after you, perhaps?"

"Perhaps," Joran answered cautiously. "But most of my enemies lay beyond The Wall, and any Ironborn with a grudge against me don't have a clue that I'm this far inland."

"Hm, quite the puzzle," Tyrion said as he scratched his chin in thought. "And without anything else to go on besides the coin, I can't say for certain if we can properly investigate this little enigma."

"So, what do we do," Joran asked, folding his arms over his chest.

With a shrug of his shoulders, Tyrion answered, "we wait."

"For?"

"Bodies with more evidence to guide us to their employers to arrive," Tyrion said before turning away from Joran to move back to camp.

"And if none of them are forthcoming before we part ways at Winterfell?" Joran asked as he followed after Tyrion.

"Well then, I should hope and pray to the Old Gods and the New that they're after you and not me," Tyrion said over his shoulder with a chuckle.

Exacerbated at the fact that the cogs of Tyrion's mind were turning and he seemed to be having fun while they were, Joran followed him back, pitying the fact that those same wheels couldn't offer him anything to go off of in terms of a suspect pool. But, for all intents and purposes, the smaller man's advice was sound. When word reached whoever employed his assailants that their mission had failed at the cost of their lives, they would undoubtedly send more men after Joran. All he really could do at that point in time, was the sensible thing. To wait.

…

**Hello everyone. Got a shorter chapter for you today, sorry if it isn't substantial enough for a few of you, but I got all I wanted into it plot-wise without any unneeded filler involved. If some of you don't like that because it might not improve the environment of the story in your eyes, like I always say, I write fanfiction as a means to practice my writing skills and my ability to form ideas. And since I've been just pouring a lot of filler into each of my other chapters and they've been taking longer to publish, I figured I'd give myself permission to have a short chapter every once in awhile to make up for lost time and speed up the story a little to where I want it to go. By the way, I know I didn't add the Black Brother Yoren into the southbound party, since he originally was one of the ones who escorted Tyrion to Winterfell. and would've got him all the way to King's Landing if Tyrion hadn't been taken by Catelyn at the inn. I may have chosen not to include him, but he'll still head down to KIng's Landing and help Arya get away, at least in my mind he still will. Thanks for sticking with me, and remember: I OWN NOTHING! Except Joran.**


	9. Chapter 9

Book 1: Blood in the South

Chapter 9: Stark Revelations

No further incidents occurring on the road, Joran and his group came into view of Winterfell on the tenth day of their journey. Reaching Wintertown by noon, the group road straight to the castle and into the courtyard. Welcomed only by a small group of stable hands, the group dismounted and began to hand off their mounts to the group, Joran pulled one of the young men aside and asked him to inform the Lady Catelyn of their arrival. The boy running off to do as the large man asked without a word, Mormont regrouped with the others as they began to walk towards the keep.

"Ah, it's good to be back," Tyrion said as the company came to the stone stairs that led up to the front doors of the castle. "I cannot wait to partake in more of House Stark's wine stores."

Hearing this, Joran said in reminder to his little friend, "before you start drinking early, I suggest you return the book you borrowed first."

"Why, afraid Maester Lewin will skin me alive if I forget?"

"It's not out of the realm of possibilities," Joran said sarcastically through his scarf.

Chuckling at Joran's notion, Tyrion looked up to him and said, "you're right. After Lady Stark receives us, I will make it my mission to return _The Dance of Dragons _to the library before partaking in my, _usual _pleasures."

"And I'm sure the Maester will appreciate it."

The two of them quieting their chatter upon reaching the top step and the entrance to the main hall, they walked in to be met with a sight that Joran found, peculiar.

Catelyn was not present to receive them, the one who was there though was her eldest son, Rob Stark. Sitting in the high seat of Winterfell, the boy was in full armor plating, a naked sword across his lap. Joran, knowing full well what a naked sword meant when a lord was greeting a guest, sensed an air of hostility surrounding the boy and the Stark guardsman that stood on either side of the Main Hall. Their group, cautiously walking further in towards Robb, halted before the high seat and waited for the boy to speak.

"Welcome, Joran Mormont," Rob said in greeting, his tone kind and lacking the hostility that he was obviously portraying to the group, which he seemed to be blatantly ignoring. "House Stark is honored to receive you again."

"Greetings, Lord Stark," Joran said in response, remaining respectful to the young lord, even though in his mind the boy wouldn't be the real Lord of Winterfell until his father passed. But, being wary to all the sheathed swords surrounding his group, Mormont kept his personal feelings hidden and remained courteous to the boy.

"As a bannerman of House Stark, you are very welcome to it, Lord Mormont," Rob said with a small smile forming on his lips.

Noting how Rob seemed to be blatantly ignoring the rest of the group's presence all together, Joran said, "I am honored to receive such hospitality from House Stark."

Tyrion, not unaware of what Rob Stark was doing, spoke up, "I must say, I received a warmer welcome my last visit to Winterfell."

"Any bannerman of House Stark is welcome at Winterfell," Rob said, having noted Tyrion's presence for the first time since the group had walked in.

"A bannerman of House Stark but not I, eh boy," Tyrion said in insult to the younger man.

"I'm not your boy, Lannister," Rob states, his voice seething in anger at Tyrion's remark and his hand tightening upon the hilt of his drawn sword. "I'm Lord of Winterfell while my father's away."

"If so, then perhaps you need to learn and then show a lord's courtesy when it comes to other guests, not just bannermen," Tyrion responded coolly.

Beginning to grow afraid of where the tone of the conversation was going, Joran, contemplating if he was going to need to get in between the current Lord of Winterfell and the House he was sworn to serve, and a man he had sworn to protect in order to help his grandfather and the Night's Watch, almost jumped out of his skin when a side door to the Main Hall flew open. Turning in the direction of the noise, Mormont was almost bowled over when a small figure ran out and slammed into his waist. Looking down, Joran found that it was Bran Stark, awake and well.

"Joran, you're back!" Bran yelled happily.

Warmed by the show of affection from the Stark boy, Joran, feeling the tension around him slightly lessening at the display of affection, gently patted Bran on his back and said, "Hello, Bran."

"So, the news we received at The Wall was true, the boy is awake," Tyrion noted at the display before declaring, "you Starks are hard to kill."

Upon those words, Rob followed up from where he sat, "you Lannisters should remember that."

Ignoring whatever private squabble that Rob Stark had with Tyrion, Joran spoke to Bran. "It's good to see that you're on your feet, lad."

"Maester Lewin told me what happened," Bran said into Joran's leg before turning his face up to look at his savior with bright eyes. "He told me that you caught me when I fell from the tower and saved my life."

"He told you the truth," Joran said with a nod of confirmation. "Got a nasty bump on my skull afterwards, but I caught you."

Tightening his hold on Joran's waist, Bran said, "than you, Joran."

"You're quite welcome, Bran," Joran said before Tyrion moved closer to the two of them.

"Bran, do you remember anything," Tyrion asked in a kind tone. "From when you fell?"

Releasing Joran from his hug to look at Tyrion, Bran admitted to the dwarf, "I don't remember anything from when I fell from the tower."

"Curious," Tyrion said inquisitively. "You're lucky that Joran was there to catch you. A fall like that would have been more than capable of killing or crippling anyone, especially a boy."

Before any more words could be exchanged between Tyrion or Bran, Joran heard the sound of a happy bark that drew his attention over to another side door to the Main Hall. From that door came the youngest Stark, Rickon, three direwolves, and Theon Greyjoy. One of the three direwolves, one with silver fur, shot straight for Joran and Bran. Recognizing the creature to be the pup that he had met on his last visit there, now the size of a normal adult wolf, the large man turned to greet it. His old acquaintance jumping on him much like its master had just done, Joran heard the direwolf whining happily as it furiously sniffed him while standing on its hind legs, its forepaws on his waist. Smiling beneath his scarf, Mormont petted the wolf with it responding by shoving its head into the palm of his hand.

Looking over to Bran, Joran said, "it appears that our little friend didn't forget about me."

"I named him Summer after I woke up," Bran said as he looked upon the sight.

"That's quite a name," Joran said, privately noting the irony of a creature born to survive winter being named after a warm season. "A good name."

Seeing Bran smile at the compliment, Joran turned his attention back to Summer and rubbing both of the wolf's ears, playfully asked, "you like that name, don't you?"

Yipping happily, Summer gave his answer to Joran.

"Grrrgh…"

The fond reunion interrupted by the sound of low growling, Joran turned his attention onto the other two direwolves, one with black fur and the other grey, who had begun to flank Tyrion. Noting the vicious demeanor of the two wolves, Mormont moved Summer off of him into Bran's arms, and slid closer to the dwarf's side. The wolves, appearing to want to attack Tyrion, seemed to hold back while Joran stood so close to their target.

"The wolves don't seem to like the Imp's smell," Theon said arrogantly as he looked upon the scene.

"I think it is about time I took my leave," Tyrion said, the hungry looks of the direwolves setting him on edge. "Since it appears that m presence isn't wanted here."

Knowing that the minute Tyrion left his side the wolves would pounce, Joran, not wanting to let that happen, said, "I'll walk you out."

"I think that'd be wise," Tyrion agreed.

Turning back to Rob, Joran expressed to him, "My Lord, if your hospitality is not extended to Tyrion, then I must request that I escort him to another place of lodging."

"Why would you need to escort a Lannister, Mormont," Rob asked, the courtesy he had towards Joran seeming to disappear.

Standing his ground firmly before the Stark boy, Joran answered him. "I swore an oath to my grandfather, The Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, Jeor Mormont, that I would see that Tyrion Lannister would remain safe until his departure from Winterfell. To fail in my promise to him would be a disservice to his name, my House, and by extension House Stark. And, I'd rather keep my promise than bring dishonor to anyone's House and name, my Lord."

His words seeming to relay to Rob, Joran watched as the younger boy nodded and gave his silent consent.

"Thank you, Lord," Joran said before turning back to walk Tyrion out of Winterfell to someplace a little less hostile.

…

Making their quick exit from Winterfell, Joran with Tyrion and company in tow walked beyond the walls into Wintertown. Once they were beyond the castle and any unwanted ears to over hear him speak, Mormont growled out in irritation, "That went well."

"What was that all about, anyway," Tyrion asked, ruffled from the scene that had just occurred.

"I don't know," Joran answered looking at Tyrion. Seeing the smaller man give him a look that said he didn't believe him, he said, "I'm just as confused about what just happened as you are, Tyrion."

Not saying anything in response to his friend's words, Tyrion instead said, "I haven't been met with that much hostility since I visited a castle in the Reach. After I had slept with a number of women inside said castle, but still, I find it odd that the Stark boy shows me such insult after I have done nothing to him or his house."

Halting Tyrion in the street, Joran looked him in the eye and said, "I share your sentiment, Tyrion. I'm on your side."

"I know my friend," Tyrion said ashamedly. "I don't blame you for what just happened, and soon enough, I won't blame the Stark boy either."

Guessing that Tyrion planned on getting drunk early, Joran asked, "I take it that you already have a place to stay in mind?"

"Oh, indeed I do, Joran," Tyrion said with a smirk before gesturing in the direction of the Wintertown brothel.

"Old habits," Joran plainly said.

"There are some itches of mine that I need scratched, if you take my meaning," Tyrion responded.

"I do," Joran said before watching Tyrion begin to dig into his travel bag.

Producing _The Dance of Dragons, _Tyrion offered the book to Joran and said, "Before my mind becomes an abyss, would you mind taking this back to the Winterfell library. I doubt I'd be able to make it that far if I went back in to do it myself."

Accepting the book, Joran said, "I will."

Watching as the smaller man turned away from him in the direction of the brothel with his guards in tow, Joran began to move back to Winterfell with Osha by his side when he heard Tyrion call out behind him, "you should come have dinner with me later."

Turning back around to face Tyrion, Joran began to decline when he was stopped by a raised hand from the dwarf. "I am not Robert, I won't force you to drink anything that would be capable of impairing your ability to remain civil. I would just like to have one more sit down with you before I head out in the morning."

"You plan on leaving already," Joran asked in surprise.

"When you walk out of a tense room like that one was," Tyrion said in reference to what happened in the Main Hall. "You get the message that you shouldn't stay in the vicinity any longer than you have to."

Taking his friend's words into consideration, Joran eventually agreed, "Alright. I could swing by later and have a bite."

"Excellent my friend," Tyrion said, a large childish grin forming on his face. "Perhaps there could be a woman in it for you."

"Let's just keep it at dinner," Joran said with raised hands before Tyrion could attempt to convince him into some kind of mischief.

"Understandable," Tyrion said, his smile shortening before turning back towards the brothel and calling over his shoulder. "I'll see you later."

Keeping his eye on Tyrion and his men until they entered the building, Joran turned back around to Winterfell and with Osha by his side, walked back into what he felt like was a real wolf's den.

…

After parting with Tyrion and walking back into the castle, Joran with Osha following close behind, immediately located Maester Lewin and asked him if he could show him where the library was so he could return _The Dance of Dragons. _Following the older man to the library, Mormont walked in silence for a time besides the Maester until the older man broke it.

"I apologize for the spectacle you saw earlier, Lord Mormont," Lewin said sadly. "Rob was taught better than that."

"I'd hardly call that a spectacle, Maester," Joran said before inquiring to Lewin. "Where did all that come from anyhow?"

"The Starks and Lannisters have had a very, tumultuous relationship, since the end of Robert's Rebellion," Lewin said in explanation. "And I'm afraid that some of that silent hostility has been slowly transferred to the younger generation."

Remembering his own lessons with his own House Maester, Samn Lowther, on the subject of Robert's rebellion and how the Lannister forces had tricked their way into King's Landing in order to win the war for Robert, Joran could understand how Ned, a man of honor, could find exception to the heinous acts that were committed then. "I guess hate has a way of finding its way into children. It still doesn't excuse Rob's actions as the acting Lord of Winterfell."

"You are right in that regard, Joran," Lewin admitted.

"Why didn't Catelyn Stark receive us," Joran asked, finding it strange that he had not seen the Lady of Winterfell once since he had arrived.

"The Lady of Winterfell isn't here presently," Lewin answered. "She was called away on a family matter. She's in the Riverlands with her father, trying to nurse him to better health."

"Hm," Joran hummed curiously. He found Lewin's explanation of Catelyn's absence to be slightly, forced. Suspicious as to the integrity of the Maester's story, Joran left it alone for now and said, "Hopefully he recovers without incident."

"Indeed," Lewin said before they arrived to their destination.

…

After returning the book, Joran retired to his room and remained there with Osha for a time before he was called to supper by Rob Stark. Heading out alone after changing his clothes and promising Osha that he would bring her some food on his return, he made his way to the Main Hall. Upon his arrival, Joran found a familiar face with a few others there.

"Yoren?"

"Hello Joran," the brother of the Night's Watch said before extending a hand out to the young Mormont. "Nice to see you again."

Taking his hand, Joran shook it saying, "Likewise. How have you come here?"

"Me and my fellows here were sent out by Jeor a few days after you and the little Lannister left," Yoren explained after retracting his hand. "We'll be heading everywhere we can to get more recruits for the Watch."

"Not surprised, you need the numbers," Joran said, agreeing with Jeor's decision.

"Aye, Jeor also sent us in order to act as an escort for Tyrion Lannister beyond Winterfell, make sure he does good on his word about talking to the King about The Watch's situation."

Nodding, Joran said, "That's good. A man like him will probably need it, once he gets further south where there's more pleasure than pain."

"Couldn't have said it better myself," Yoren said before lowering his voice. "On our way down the Kingsroad, we came across a scene that was rather, eh, disturbing. Did anything happen to your group on your way here?"

Figuring Yoren was referring to the bodies he'd left in the forest, Joran answered the man honestly, "Aye, something happened. We were being followed by brigands, I felt their eyes on us after the first few days and started keeping an eye out for trouble at night. Eventually, trouble came and I handled it."

"I saw the results," Yoren said with a nod. "And I have to say, I've only seen work like that done beyond The Wall by a few choice brothers dealing with Wildlings."

"That a compliment?"

"Eh, yes and no," Yoren answered.

"Better than nothing, I suppose," Joran said before the Stark household started to arrive.

Once all were present, Rob Stark invited everyone to take a seat and Joran was immediately asked by Bran to sit next to him. Not wanting to hurt the boy's feelings and decline, the older man obliged him. The dinner, though not as full of courses, song and splendor as the dinner had when Winterfell had received the King, it was still a nice gathering, almost homely. So much so, it reminded Joran of his dinners with his family back home on Bear Island. Lacking a murderous cousin and a few younger heads perhaps, but it was close enough to be comfortable.

After the food was served and eaten, all gathered began to spend the remainder of the occasion chatting up a storm with one another. The few brothers of the Nights Watch that had come with Yoren were standing amongst themselves talking about their current assignments, Yoren was being polite and talking with Rob and Theon, laughing at bawdy remarks made by the latter while maintaining a respectful demeanor with the former, and Rickon was talking to Maester Lewin, who had begun to inform him and his brother on the lessons they would be receiving on the morrow. While all the talk was going on around him, Joran gave his full attention to Bran. The boy was delighted to have him there in Winterfell and like a little chatter box asked the large man many questions. How was his trip to The Wall? Did he go to the lands beyond? Did he fight any Wildlings? How was Jon? How was Benjen? Answering these questions, most of them honestly and some not so much, Joran entertained Bran as best he could while at the dinner table.

"Joran, how long will you be staying with us?" Bran asked, looking up at Joran expectantly.

Having planned to stay only a week at Winterfell in order to restock on supplies before heading back to Bear Island, Joran was about to say as much to Bran when their talk was interrupted by his older brother Rob.

"Joran," Rob said, bringing Joran's attention to the acting Lord of Winterfell. "I'd like to offer my sincerest apologies for my…earlier demeanor."

"Is that so," Joran asked with a cocked eyebrow, wondering if Maester Lewin had given Rob an earful on etiquette between the time when he had returned the _Dance of Dragons _and his arrival to dinner.

"Yes," Rob answered. "I should not have acted the way I did in front of one of my father's bannerman, one who will someday be a bannerman to me. Especially a man who saved my brother's life. What I did earlier was unbecoming, and I'm sorry."

Noting Rob Stark's words, Joran, hearing some sincerity in the younger man's voice, said plainly, "I accept your apology. And, I'm happy to know that you are willing to admit that you were wrong in your earlier actions, especially when it came to receiving new guests."

Seeing his words seem to sting the boy's pride in a slight facial expression that Rob gave off, Joran, in order to try and not entirely lower the boy's self esteem as the heir to Winterfell, added, "there are many proud lords in Westeros who think themselves above Guest Rite and go on to disrespect their current charges, not apologizing afterwards. Great Lords though, are capable of tempering their pride with humility, which is good to see that you are learning from your mistakes quickly, Lord Stark."

"I'm happy to know that I'm among the few that can apologize then," Rob said before picking up a glass of wine. "And please, call me Rob."

The conversation between the two not going unnoticed, Theon Greyjoy spoke up across from Joran and asked, "do you have a problem with how your Lord handled the Imp earlier, Mormont?"

Turning his attention to the Ironborn pup, Joran said, "I do take exception to how the Lord of Winterfell acted earlier towards one of his potential guests, yes."

"You got quite the set on you to speak against your Lord in regards to how we treat Lannisters, especially the Imp," Theon said, acting as though Joran was some kind of traitor under interrogation.

"I'm not going against anyone, Greyjoy," Joran said, finding Theon's tone and demeanor less than amusing.

"Could've fooled me, considering you and him seem to have grown close since you left with him for The Wall," Theon went on with a hint of bravado to his tone. "What? Did the dwarf diddle you while you were with him?"

"Theon," Rob and Bran growled simultaneously in anger at Theon's brazenness towards Joran.

"You ask a lot of questions, Greyjoy," Joran said, his tone giving away his curiosity towards Theon's bravery to try and rile him up. "Is there a reason why you're showing such hostility towards me, a guest of your Lord?"

All eyes in the room turning onto the conversation, Theon grew quiet and Joran realized some kind of pattern to the boy's questioning and the spectacle that Rob Stark had performed earlier upon their arrival. There was a grudge in House Stark against Tyrion. What it was, Joran didn't know, but given the consistency in hostility whenever he entered the subject, the Starks and their loyal ward took great exception to it. So much so that Theon was willing to antagonize a loyal bannerman to House Stark, and perhaps, to even go so far as to insult his loyalty.

Given his reputation, Joran assumed that every man there was waiting to see him fly into a rage and cave in Theon Greyjoy's face with a fist. But, instead of giving off such a spectacle, even as much as he wanted to, he declined and stated. "I see that Tyrion Lannister isn't the only one not wanted here. I think I'll take my leave for the night."

Carefully rising so as to not spook everyone into reaching for something to defend themselves with, Joran turned to Maester Lewin and asked him politely, "Maester, could you be so kind as to send a dish of food to my room. Along with some water for my travelling companion."

"Of course, my Lord," Lewin said with a nod.

"Thank you," Joran said before turning to Rob. "I wish you a pleasant evening, Lord Stark."

Then, ruffling Bran's hair and wishing him goodnight as well on his way, Joran stomped out of the Main Hall and out of the castle towards Wintertown to meet up with Tyrion.

…

Arriving and entering the brothel, Joran stood at the threshold and found the place to be packed with customers, all full of drink and loud mirth. Mildly surprised by what he saw, the young Mormont scanned his surroundings in search of his little friend. The air of the place was smoky from a number of occupants smoking from pipes and the fact that there was a large amount of bodies, some standing side to side and others sitting, it would be a wonder if Joran was able to locate Tyrion in the mess. And, just as he was about to give up under the assumption that the dwarf was no doubt already in bed with a woman by now, a wonder came and he spotted the little man, his table filled to the brim with women.

_Should've figured he'd be the man with the most whore's in the room, _Joran thought before stepping further into the establishment towards Tyrion. Making his way past a number of the brothel's occupants, some bumping into him along the way and either not noticing, or turning to face him and quickly changing their minds at the site of the masked giant, he was soon spotted by the smallest among them as he looked up from a pair of tits that he had been admiring in a drunken gaze. "JORAN!" Tyrion called out, lifting a mug filled to the brim with what looked to be red wine as it splashed out onto the table and one of the women beside the little man.

Parting from the mass of bodies and approaching the table, Joran watched as Tyrion asked one of the women sitting across from him to make room for his friend. Once he got to his destination, he pulled the free chair out and took a seat.

"Glad to see that you came," Tyrion hollered over the din, a wide smile on his face.

"I'm glad that I did," Joran responded in a loud voice through his scarf.

"Is there something wrong, Mormont," Tyrion asked, his eyes narrowing while his smile never faltered.

"Why would there be anything wrong," Joran said, his tone flat.

"Although your scarf hides a lot, your eyes can just as easily tell a story, Joran. The fact that you're scowling tells me that you just had an unpleasant run in with a problem. One that you couldn't immediately solve with your usual methods."

Tyrion said all of this with a smirk on his face before raising his mug to his lips. It almost made Joran want to throttle him then and there. But it wasn't Tyrion's fault that he was pissed. "I admire your powers of perception," was all Joran would say, the scowl on his face deepening before he went on. "It would seem that my affiliation to you has made me a subject to questioning from the Stark ward, Theon Greyjoy."

Lowering the mug from his lips, Tyrion swallowed and said, "well, that's unfortunate. If it's any consolation, I apologize for mixing you up in whatever grudge House Stark has against me."

"Don't apologize, Tyrion," Joran said, folding his arms over his chest. "It's not your fault that Ironborn are cunts."

"Well said," Tyrion said with a laugh before shouting towards the barkeep, "get this man a drink. Whatever he wants."

"Water," Joran yelled over his shoulder before turning his gaze back to Tyrion. "My own sorrows put aside; I have some good news for you."

"Good news from Winterfell for a Lannister, I'm shocked," Tyrion said jokingly before turning to one of the women sitting by his side and stroking her hand sensually.

"A group of Night's Watchmen arrived before dinner, apparently, they left two days after us to try and catch you before you departed from Winterfell. They'll be an acting escort for you on your way south to collect recruits," Joran said before his water arrived.

"Ah, your grandfather is quite the diligent man," Tyrion said, his attention going back to Joran. "Pity he didn't send them out with us when we left. Probably could've helped when those bandits came for us in the night."

"Bandits, oh my!" These words and more flowed around the table from the lips of the present female company.

"Indeed, my dears, and this man single handedly defeated all of them," Tyrion said, pushing the whores' admiration towards Joran. "I owe this man my life."

"Your praise isn't necessary, Tyrion," Joran said before the small man could butter him or the women up more than he already had. "Anyway, better late than never I suppose. Jeor had sent them out to act as a form of rear support for our group, in case any Wildlings made it past The Wall and gave us trouble on our way."

"Almost sounds like he didn't trust you to handle my protection," Tyrion said jokingly, holding off from pushing any woman's attentions further towards Joran.

"Extra protection never hurt anyone," Joran said in irritation to Tyrion's proclamation. "And sometimes Wildling's travel in groups larger than the one I dealt with on the road. So, in a way, we were lucky to have them watching our backs in case it had been Wildlings that wanted to give us trouble."

"Well, in any case, I'll appreciate their protection on my way to King's Landing," Tyrion said. "And I'll be sure to tell them to pass my appreciation onto the Lord Commander upon their return to Castle Black."

"I'm sure my grandfather will like that," Joran said with a nod before bringing the mug of water up to his lips and taking a sip.

Enjoying Tyrion's company for a time, Joran sat back as the little man told enough dirty jokes to the working girls that would make a Septon pass out. As the night drew on, he turned down every offer of buying him a girl that the dwarf made. Every time he did though, Joran would be met with the same joke from Tyrion about how he was saving himself for the Wildling woman he had tamed during their travels together, making him scowl whenever he did and the working girls laugh more. Entertained and laughing along with the small man, the larger of the two eventually called it a night with the promise of seeing his friend off in the morning. Tyrion stating that he would hold him to it, Joran departed from the brothel and returned to his rooms in Winterfell.

…

The next morning, Joran, avoiding having breakfast with the Starks, made his way out to Wintertown with Osha by his side. Arriving well before Yoren and his gang to the brothel, Mormont moved around the building towards the back to where he believed the stables were located. Finding the place with little difficulty, Joran beheld the sight of Tyrion's guardsman preparing the horses for their homeward journey. With the little man nowhere to be seen.

Noting Tyrion's absence, Joran, figuring that the dwarf was still sleeping off all the wine that he had drank last night, didn't bother asking the guards where their master was hiding and decided to walk into the brothel in search of him. Osha still on his heels, the large man made his way to the front entrance of the establishment and pushing through the front doors, came upon the site of the common room bare of any life, save a few working girls at a table taking what looked like their breakfast. Moving further in, Joran walked a straight line towards the empty bar, where its keeper was wiping his counter clean from what spills there had been during the ruckus of last night.

Catching the man's eye upon his approach, Joran watched as the man stood up straight and upon recognizing the scarfed figure, said kindly, "morning. Come back for more water? Or perhaps something a little stronger to start off your day?"

"No," Joran said, sensing the barkeeps question was genuine and not a jab towards his preference in drink he had the night prior. "Looking for my friend, Tyrion Lannister."

"Oh, him. I put the little man in a room on the second floor," the barkeep and brothel proprietor answered, pointing a thumb up towards the balcony above the bar. "Best one in the house too, if I do say so myself."

Turning his gaze up to the balcony that rapped around the upper portions of the brothel, and the door that the barkeep was referring to, Joran, figuring that after all the traveling he and Tyrion had been doing, the smaller man wanted to have a cozy space to set his feet up at before quickly vacating the area after the greeting he had received in Winterfell. Then, looking back to the man, he said, "thanks."

With Osha following him on his way towards the stairs up to the second floor, positioned conveniently next to the front entrance to the brothel, Joran found that his path was about to be blocked by one of the working girls that had been presently eating breakfast. Abandoning her meal, the woman, her red hair wrapped up in a bundle atop her head, started to stroll up to the taller man with a cocky smile upon her face and her blue eyes planted lustily upon her target. Knowing full well the woman's intentions and not desiring any part in them, Joran adjusted his walking angle towards the stairs, so as to walk around the oncoming whore. However, it wasn't enough to deter the woman's advance and before the scarfed man could simply sidestep out of her way, she was upon him.

"Hello love, come for some company," she asked sweetly.

"No," Joran said flatly before attempting to move around the smaller figure. "Excuse me."

"Oh? Why not? Ain't I pretty enough for you?"

Looking down at her, Joran, seeing that the woman was rather pretty, quickly and plainly lied, "no you're not."

Hoping that he had dissuaded any further attempts at seducing him, Joran moved to sidestep the redhead again. The woman was persistent however and moved in front of him again to block his way.

"Well, if that's the case, you don't have to look at me. You can just take me from the back and pretend I'm someone else. I can be anyone you want my Lord."

His eyebrows beginning to drop into a scowl, Joran was about to tell the woman off one more time, when Osha moved past him and growled at the whore, "he isn't interested bitch, now piss off."

"And you are?" the whore asked the wildling in a tone of indignance.

"Someone who can smell your flabby cunt from here," Osha said while waving a hand across her nose as though to ward off a bad stench. "And believe me, smells worse than the bastard that was grunting on top of you last night. Whew!"

"You, scrawny little bitch," the whore said before moving to no doubt try and throttle Osha.

Moving between the two, Joran blocked the whore's path while the barkeep shouted at his back, "leave 'em both be Ros. Last thing I need is for you to get a split lip from the man's misses. There'll be plenty customers later."

Ros, finally taking the hint, moved out of Joran and Osha's way. Noticing the whore glaring angrily at the Wildling woman, Mormont ignored it. Osha on the other hand didn't.

"Before the next batch comes though, I'd suggest you give that hole of yours a good scrub, love," Osha said cockily to Ros's face.

Leaving Ros's face shocked and her jaw hanging down to the floor, Joran, a small smile forming beneath his scarf, moved on to the stairs with the barkeep's laughter and Osha behind him. Stomping up them to the balcony, the two then wove their way around to the end to the room that held Tyrion and coming to stand before the door, gave the wood a firm knock to let his friend know he had company. Not hearing anything on the other side though, Joran pushed the door open to find clothes strewn across the floor and that his little friend was still in bed, passed out in between two whores.

_Figures, _Joran thought before an idea came to his mind on how to wake the dwarf up. Taking hold of the end of the bed facing him, the giant man lifted it up and slammed it back down to the floor yelling, "RISE AND SHINE!" Startling all the bed's occupants awake, Joran let out a deep chuckle at the sight of Tyrion's face and messy hair looking around in stunned surprise.

"Joran? What in the Seven Hells?" Tyrion asked groggily as his two bedmates rose from the mattress and made to leave. "No, girls wait, come on now one more tumble."

His pleas being ignored by the women, who had no doubt already been paid for the first round, Tyrion was left alone with Joran and Osha. The smaller man, sitting up on the bed and looking at his larger companion like a pouting child, said "you're worse than my brother when it comes to scaring off whores, Joran. Bad form, bad form."

"Get up my friend," Joran said before grabbing a pair of small pants off the floor and throwing them at Tyrion, who let them land on his head. "Your men are almost ready with the horses."

"Mmm," Tyrion moaned as he pulled his trousers off of his blonde scalp. "What's the rush? You want me gone that bad?"

Rolling his eyes, Joran plainly said, "hurry up. Yoren and his lot are probably already waiting on you as well."

"Wouldn't want to keep the glorified bodyguard waiting would we," Tyrion said sarcastically before rolling out of bed and pulling his trousers up his stumpy legs.

"See you down there," Joran said, exiting the room with Osha before Tyrion could let out any more of his grumblings. Then, walking out of the brothel, the two came face to face with Yoren, his men, the bridles of their steeds in their hands, and the Lannister guardsman with their mounts as well as their master's, waiting expectantly for the last member of their party.

"He up?" Yoren asked in a gravelly voice.

"Aye, made sure of that," Joran said before hooking his thumbs into his belt.

"Appreciate that," Yoren said with a nod. "Last thing me and my boys need is a distraction like what's in there to make us hold off on our journey. Not that it wouldn't be unwelcomed of course."

"Believe me, you'd still find plenty of willing distractions in there as well, even at this hour."

A half an hour passing before the last of the southbound party had finally graced them with his presence, the moment Tyrion waddled out of the brothel's entrance, everyone began to mount up. Walking with his little friend towards his horse, Joran said down to him, "for what it's worth, sorry for the rude awakening."

"Eh, no apologies necessary. I've had worse, trust me." Tyrion said before one of his men produced the small stepstool that the little man used in order to mount his horse. Waddling up the small steps, he pulled himself onto the saddle and looking back at Joran, said, "It'll produce a good laugh when I retell my travels with better company."

"I don't doubt it," Joran said with a small nod.

After a brief pause, Tyrion said, "I don't know why, but I have a strange feeling that this might not be the last time you and I see each other."

Joran, finding it rather unlikely that he would ever see Tyrion again, considering the fact that even this time had already been an unlikely paring of the two, asked, "how do you figure?"

"I'm not sure. Hopefully though, when next we meet it'll be under better circumstances than our parting today."

Smiling beneath his scarf, Joran, offering a hand to Tyrion said, "I hope so too, my little friend."

His hand easily enveloping Tyrion's, Joran bid the Lannister, his men, the Night's Watchmen and Yoren a fond farewell before they trotted off in the direction of the Kingsroad. Once the group was out of site, Mormont moved in the direction of Winterfell with Osha by his side.

…

Returning to the castle, Joran and Osha made their way across the courtyard towards the entrance to the keep. Passing a few of the household's early risers as they went, Mormont felt a small number of eyes upon him and the wildling woman he walked with. And, if he didn't know any better, he'd say that they probably looked like an odd pair indeed: a scrawny woman trailing a giant in the wee hours of the morning. It was almost laughable when Joran thought about it.

Walking up the stone steps towards the threshold of the keep, Joran thought about returning to his bed and taking a nap when upon making it up to the top step and the entrance of Winterfell, he was met with an unlikely sight. That of Maester Lewin to greet his return.

"Good morning, Maester Lewin," Joran greeted in a polite tone.

"Good morning, Joran," Lewin said in turn before looking at Osha and offering the same greeting. "Good morning, miss."

Crossing his hands in front of himself, Joran inquired, "To what do I owe the pleasure of being greeted upon my return by you this morning?"

"I was wondering if you and I could speak for a moment," Lewin answered with a question.

"Aye, we can talk," Joran said with a nod. "Is something the matter?"

"In a way, I suppose there is," Lewin said before gesturing for Joran to walk with him while they spoke.

Walking beside the Maester with Osha behind them, Joran followed Lewin further into the castle until they were well away from the Main Hall and in one of the many hallways that wound throughout the castle. Once out of earshot, the young man listened as the elder began to speak his mind. "With the absence of their mother, father and sisters, and Robb taking to his responsibilities as acting Lord of Winterfell, I fear that the younger Stark children feel as though they have been abandoned by both their parents and their siblings."

Feeling a touch of sentiment towards the two youngsters, Joran had felt the same way more than once when he was younger. It had usually happened whenever his father Jorah left for the wars in the young Mormont's youth. Every time, Joran wondered if his sire would ever come home and dreaded the thought of him never returning alive to Bear Island. But that was back when he had still cared if the bastard lived or died. Before…

"It's the price the young must pay when those they love become people of importance," Joran said, chasing off the memories of what had happened between him and his old man.

"Sadly so," Lewin said before moving on to his point. "While this is the case though, I was wondering if you wouldn't mind helping to remind the children that they haven't been forgotten by their loved ones."

"How could I help," Joran asked.

"Bran admires you," Lewin said in answer. "After the incident, he constantly spoke of you, asking when you would return and hoping that you would. Now that you have, it is my belief that if you spend time with him, and Rickon as well, I believe that the two of them won't feel as though the world has forgotten about them."

"Hm, almost sounds like you need a babysitter, and you want me for the job," Joran said in jest with a growl.

Lewin, not getting the fact that Joran's words had been meant as a joke, began to stutter out an apology. "Oh no, Lord, I didn't mean it like that…I only meant in the capacity of a mentor…someone to look up to-."

"It's alright, Lewin," Joran said in order to stop the older man from irritating him with a river of apology. "I can understand where your coming from and when it comes to kids, it helps to have more bodies on roll."

Taking a moment to consider the request, Joran thought about what Maege would do or say if he refused. Well, for one, she'd sock him in the arm considering the fact she couldn't really smack him upside his head for refusing such an offer of mentoring the Stark children. Then, Joran thought about how his aunt would explain to him how such a minor act could greatly benefit their house. Knowing Maege, the first thing she'd probably go on about was potential marriage proposals between House Mormont and House Stark, then further on from there for however long she needed to in order to get it stuck into his skull.

So, after silently contemplating the matter, Joran said with a shrug, "alright, I'll humor you and stay for a spell, help the kids out. But, what capacity would you need me at in regards to Bran and Rickon?"

"Well, in the event that you agreed, I had given some thought as to where you cold be put that would serve the most good," Lewin said confidently, his face seeming to brighten at the larger man's consent. Almost as though he already know Joran would say yes. "And I believe that as a temporary Master-at-Arms, you could spend time with the boys, as well as train them."

"Wouldn't Ser Rodrik take exception to my intrusion," Joran asked.

"Oh no, of course not. Ser Rodrik is at this very moment the acting bodyguard to Lady Catelyn while she is in the Riverlands," Lewin explained.

"Huh, glad to know you have your best sword watching out for her," Joran said in response to the news, but still finding Lewin's explanation to Lady Stark's absence, rather questionable. "Then I agree. Filling in the roll of Master-at-Arms for a time would suit me well, at least until I find it's time for me to return to Bear Island and my men."

"In regards to that, I trust that your Oathbound will be in good hands in your absence," Lewin inquired.

"Aye," Joran said confidently. "My second, Garrett Snow will look after them. Granted, they're all probably enjoying some much-needed rest without me around to badger them. If they start having too much fun though and get rowdy, Garrett will knock some sense into them."

"That's good," Lewin said. "Your band does much good for The North and I'd hate to intrude in your duty to them."

"They're warriors, Maester, not a bunch of boys and girls that need me as a wet nurse," Joran said, adamant in his confidence in his warband's ability to carry on without him if they were needed to defend The North.

"Then it is settled," Lewin said with a happy smile. "When would you like to start?"

"Early tomorrow morning, before breakfast is served, and then after," Joran said, his mind going back once again to the days of his youth when he used to be trained under a Master-at-Arms and how he had run their training sessions. At least, before his other side came to light.

"Excellent, I shall pass the news onto them and Robb," Lewin said before parting ways with Joran and Osha.

"What's a Master-at-Arms?" Osha asked beside Joran.

Figuring it wouldn't hurt to answer the wildling's question, Joran said bluntly, "it's a roll where a proficient warrior teaches young lords how to fight and properly defend themselves, be it if they are assaulted far from the safety of this keep, or if they are called upon by the King to fight in a war for him."

"So, I take it you'll be teaching these young lords how to fight like you? To…be like you?"

"I'll teach them how to fight," Joran confirmed. "But not like me."

"Why not?"

"Because, besides a few others in the Seven Kingdoms, I doubt there's anyone else who _can_ fight like me."

…

Taking dinner with the Starks that evening, Joran was well aware of the excitement that emanated from both of the younger Starks about him becoming their temporary master-at-arms. All throughout dinner, Bran and Rickon bombarded the Bear Islander with many questions about the lessons he would be providing them come the morning. Joran, deciding to begin their lessons early, merely said to them that a true warrior never truly knows what tomorrow has in store for his life, what he does know though is that he has the strength of mind and body to meet what challenges the gods provide him. It was a hard truth about life as well as fighting that Mormont had learned many times over the course of his many defenses of Bear Island. Joran was not always completely successful in his protection of his home, his first few bouts with raiders having been further inland while they were about their business taking from others. Though he had defeated them, it had not been without cost, and the young warrior had had to plan accordingly for every raid after that, until his defense finally became impeccable with the many beacons he had helped erect across his home acting as the fastest means of alerting him and his warriors to incoming threats.

His words bringing peace to the table, Joran retired after dinner was finished to his rooms, bringing food to Osha when he returned. The next morning arriving quickly for him, Mormont, his wild main pulled back into a ponytail to reveal his scarfed face, dressed in gambeson, chainmail, and leather, and his weapons upon him, made his way out to the training yard to be met with the darkness of early morning, with only a few torches lit to illuminate the area. Breathing in the cold morning air of The North, Joran thought back to his old training sessions with House Mormont's Master-at-Arms. The cruel bastard had always beat him, Dacey before she hated him, and a younger Alysane out to the training yard at the earliest hours of the morning. Met with the cold sea air that always enveloped the island, the children had trained without food in their bellies and their many movements had been the only source of warmth for them until the time for breakfast and they were aloud to return to the Keep, and the lit hearth within. That part of the training and more had been hard on the Mormont children, but they had been made stronger from them, and in the world that they lived in, one could never have enough strength.

Joran knew that what lessons he imparted would be hard on Bran and Rickon as they had been hard on him and his cousins. But he also knew that they too would gain strength from them.

"Joran." His thoughts returning to the present and his task at hand, Joran turned to find the sleepy-eyed Bran and Rickon dressed in gambesons and training armor, their training swords and shields in their hands, walking towards him, both of them, accompanied by their wolves, rubbing their eyes at least once.

"Good morning, lads," Joran said in kind greeting to the young Starks and the two animals with them.

"Good morning," the two of them said in return, Rickon yawning after the words left his mouth.

Deciding that it would be best to get them started before the cold of the mainland sapped what warmth there was from their bodies, Joran said enthusiastically, "alright, before we begin our lessons today, I want you both to warm up and stretch your joints out. I trust that Ser Rodrick has given you both instruction in this area?"

"Yes," Bran answered flatly for the both of them. The two boys swung, twisted, stretched, and shook their arms, legs, and torsos in short order. Once the two of them and Joran were sure that the sleep had been chased from their bodies, Bran and Rickon awaited the next instruction from their current master.

"Now, I want you both to have a quick spar with one another," Joran ordered.

"Ser Rodrik never had us spar at the beginning of our lessons," Rickon said both blatantly and curiously, the young boy seemingly irritated from his slumber being cut short.

"Well he is not here presently," Joran said sharply, causing both boys and wolves to startle at the seriousness in the giant man's tone. "And, while he may have a strong understanding of where you both sit in your current levels of skill, I do not. So, in order for me to become acquainted, I will need you two to spar so that I may see what you both can do so that I may build you up from there. Now, spar."

"Yes, sir," Bran and Rickon said one after the other before taking up stances facing each other, their shields and swords raised. And as their masters readied themselves, the two wolves came to sit at Joran's flanks, looking on with the Master-at-Arms at the match. Their sparing bout short, with the elder of the two offering two taps to the younger one's limbs, no doubt due to his longer bit of training experience, Mormont stopped them and thought curiously. Looking at them both as they went took him back to when he would constantly be beaten by his elder cousin Dacey, and he decided that he would do his best to make sure that Rickon caught up with Bran as far as sparing. Granted, that would be a task if the elder sibling furthered his own skills as well while under his tutelage, and if the younger did not find the motivation or the determination to try and overlap his sibling, then he would remain the lesser in the bouts.

Noting that he would need to try and get through to Rickon as their training progressed, Joran nodded and said, "well, you two aren't lacking in the basic knowledge of swordplay, which is good. But I can plainly see that there is room for improvement. Bran, you rush too quickly into action. You are too used to sparring with your young brother, that you do not take the time to study him, his stance, and his movements. The fact that you did not take some time to do this, you could not know if his stance was a solid one or a weak one, which would tell you if he was a balanced fighter incapable of being moved, or not balanced and easily toppled, if his movements were as fluid as water and quick to dodge your blows, or clumsy and blunt, leaving his defense open at your leisure. If he had been any other opponent, you would have been tapped several times over were he skilled and you may have had a harder time were he your equal in arms.

"As for you Rickon, you lead with your head too much, giving your brother a clear view of where you are going and where you will be before you even know. Just as well, by doing this, you leave your shield down, your skull ready to be cracked like an egg. You're strikes are weak, easily pushed aside; you are slow in your defense, leaving easy openings to your brother's attacks. I will not begrudge you too much for your lack of strength or speed, for you are young, but while you learn under me, you will learn these things and more. The both of you.

"Now, with what warmth you both still have in your bones, let us move on."

His assessment finished; Joran started the boys off by having them strike the dummies. Bran was ordered to strike his dummy as hard as he could ten times for five rounds at every angle, while Rickon was ordered to do the same, only his would be six strikes for five rounds. Walking around and about the two boys as they brought battle to the stick men, with the wolves walking beside him as he went, Joran observed each stance taken and strike made, and adjusted both of his charges accordingly. Though, he took the most time adjusting Rickon, for the young boy continued to rely only on his arms and shoulders for the power of his strikes rather than his legs and hips.

The boys finishing their work on the dummies right as the sun began to show itself, Joran, wanting the Stark children to earn their breakfast, ordered them to take a jog around the training yard for five laps with their gear still on. Doing as they were bid, Bran and Rickon were accompanied by their two direwolves, and all four bodies ran the perimeter of the area. Watching them as they went, Joran had a brief idea about how to possibly incorporate the direwolves into the training and thought it would have better use later on if he saw improvement in the boys' stamina. At the end of the fifth lap, Mormont ushered the boys off to breakfast, expecting them to return to continue their lessons with him.

Having an apple for his morning meal, Joran quickly ate it and while he awaited the return of the Stark boys, he took to his own training for a time. Rather than destroying the training dummies of the Starks however, he decided to shadow spar. This method of training was a simple one, where a practitioner of the militant arts would practice his form without striking a living or dead opponent. Starting off slowly with each of his weapons save Longclaw, for he wanted to pay special attention to his new weapon later on when he had no distractions, either accompanied by his shield or not, Joran allowed his movements to carefully flow through the air at every angle for a time, and he imagined each one sliding across the body of an unseen opponent. As he progressed, his speed became faster, and faster, until it almost felt like ever stroke was a blur through the air before him. Upon finishing his practice, Joran found that he had had a small audience watching him. That audience being an awestruck Bran and Rickon, and their wide-eyed wolves.

Breathing heavily and sweating from his work, Joran greeted them and picked up where they had left off. Rather than having them work on the dummies however, the Master-at-Arms chose to have them do what he had just done, and shadow spar separately in order to continue work on their endurance. Only, the boys would not swing their blades without their shields however, for until they came to appreciate the object that would one day act as one of their best methods of defense, they would use them until Joran decided that they were ready to learn how to use just a sword as both a means of offense and defense.

Their training continuing unto midday, Joran ended it when the time came for the youngsters to move onto their other lessons with Maester Lewin. Congratulating them on their first day with him, Mormont told the boys that he expected them there the same time tomorrow, and added an advisement to not stay up late and get some sleep.

…

As his daily routine with the youngsters progressed, Joran carefully eased them through a little more drilling each day to help them build up their musculature. These drills would mainly be done with their training swords, since the lads were the most comfortable with them and the style of fighting that came with the pieces. But, despite his desire to build them up on their weapons of choice, Joran also wanted them to be capable of adapting to any situation where their swords may not be available. So, in order to accomplish this, every other day he would put them through drills with a multitude of other pieces that would force them to adopt different styles of fighting. These would range from knives to hand axes, battle axes to maces, spears to long axes and what other polearms were available in-House Stark's armory, and finally ranged weapons, as well as those that could be quickly switched to ranged, which Joran would keep to only the bow, hand axe, and knife.

Aside from building their strength and adaptability, Joran had the boys consistently sparring with one another in order to get them to learn and understand each other's fighting patterns. Because the faster they were able to learn from one another, the quicker they'd have to switch up their styles so as to avoid being beaten by one another and, should the day ever come for them to fight, the faster they'd be able to read the movements of whatever opponent they come face to face with. This part of their training was mainly meant for the young Rickon, who from being the weaker and younger of the two, needed the practice if he was ever going to be able to stand beside his brothers, or alone. Joran's methods were hard on the youngest Stark, but he had gone through them himself when he was the same age as the boy, and he knew that the child would gain much from the lessons just as he had so long as he maintained the stubbornness to keep growing.

Two weeks into the training, Joran witnessed his methods bare fruit before his eyes when Rickon, during the sparring portion of the usual lessons, was able to tap Bran on his leg after giving a small feint. The first one that the Master-at-Arms had had ever seen boy commit to. Upon calling the match, both Joran and Bran had congratulated Rickon for the move and his first ever sparring victory, and the older man had allowed the both of them a reprieve for the day as well as treats from the kitchen, much to the staff's pleasure at seeing the boys, joy for their progression in their studies, and small amounts of fear of the teacher as he shared in the celebration.

As the days turned to weeks, Joran had begun to grow closer to Bran and Rickon. Seeing the boys in the same light as he saw his younger cousins, he soon found himself interacting with the youngsters outside of practice. Joran's activities with them ranged from going on walks with them, Osha, and their wolves through the Godswood, talking with them as they went, to going on rides with them through the Wolfswood to keep them safe from any predators, be they man or beast, lurking about. Though, from what the older man had seen from their connection to Summer and Rickon's Shaggydog, who continued to grow uncannily, the boys probably would've been just as safe even if he wasn't there.

On the day that marked the end of his first month into his duties, Joran decided to give Bran and Rickon the day off to do what they wanted, as long as it was in Winterfell and they swore to still make it to their other lessons. After the two had vanished, no doubt off to accomplish whatever play or mischief they could before the day truly began, the older man went alone into the Godswood with a whetstone and all of his weapons. Upon entering the holy place, Joran was met with the usual reverent silence that gripped the area, which was one of the qualities that, to him and any other northman who visited, made it so holy. Taking in the look and smell of the place before fully stepping further in, Mormont made straight for the heart tree. Setting up a small spot beneath the pale tree in the direction of the small pond that was nearby, Joran laid a blanket out upon the ground and set each piece of equipment down upon it. Going over each of his old blades in short order, he drew his stone over his knife, his old longsword, and his axe, breaking the silence of the Godswood with the sound of the rhythmic scrapings.

Coming lastly to Longclaw, Joran drew the blade fully from its scabbard and took a moment to upon the dark steel, its blade shining in the morning light, in admiration and reverence before running a thumb across one of its two edges. It was said that valyrian steel blades, due to some unknown magic, always kept their edge and there was never a need to sharpen them. But, despite this, Joran wanted to make sure that he maintained his habit of taking care of his weapons, regardless of whatever sorcery they may or may not possess, and began to draw the stone across one edge of the blade. A dozen strokes in, Mormont heard his name being called from the keep by a familiar voice.

Turning to find Bran walking towards him with Summer by his side, Joran smiled beneath his scarf and greeted the boy, "hello, Bran. Run out of things to do already?"

"Uhm, well no – I," Bran began sheepishly. Finding his tongue, he asked, "Joran, could I stay and talk with you a moment?"

Finding Bran's demeanor odd, Joran set Longclaw aside atop the blanket and waved the boy closer. Patting the spot on the ground beside him, Mormont invited the young lad to sit next to him. Once Bran was settled, Joran asked, "what's on your mind lad?"

"Well," Bran began slowly, his tone almost sounding cautious to Joran. "It's about before. Back when I fell."

"Oh," Joran said curiously before cocking an eyebrow. "What about it?"

"I'm, I'm not supposed to talk about it," Bran said quickly. "But I don't feel right about not talking about it with you. Especially since you were the one who saved me after all."

Beginning to feel uneasy about how Bran was acting, knowing the boy to not be as shy as he usually was when speaking to him, Joran, taking on his role of mentor and a kind of older sibling to the boy he had been teaching since he arrived a month past, carefully said, "Bran, whatever it is about that day, you don't need to be afraid to talk to me about it."

"But…I am afraid, Joran," Bran said, his voice slightly cracking when he spoke.

"Why would you be afraid, Bran," Joran asked, his worry for the child growing.

Then, before Joran knew it, Bran was hugging his arm in a tight embrace and crying into the sleeve of his gambeson.

"Because if I tell you, I'm afraid you'll leave me and Rickon, just like everyone else did. Mother, Rob, the minute I told them, it was almost like we didn't exist and they began to just drift away from us."

"There, there," Joran cooed in the softest voice he could manage, patting the boy on his shoulder with his free arm. "Your mother's just in the Riverlands, making sure your grandfather is alright, and you have to understand, without her or your father here, your brother has to manage Winterfell in their stead. Whatever you need to tell me can't be all bad."

When Bran didn't' respond to him, Joran went on to say, "if I promise you that I won't go anywhere if you say what you need to say, will you talk to me?"

Looking up and meeting Joran's eye, Bran nodded his head and relinquished his hold on the grown man's arm.

"The day when I woke up," Bran began. "I didn't forget what happened. I remember falling from the broken tower. And, I remember how…"

The knowledge that Bran presented to Joran, took the big man's breath away and struck him in the gut. Jaime Lannister, had lain with the Queen, his sister in the Broken Tower. Bran while climbing, had stumbled upon the two in the act and had been thrown from the tower by the Kingslayer. At that moment, Joran thought back to the memory of that day and everything flowed back to him. How Bran had been standing in the window, arms spread out, it made sense. And the fact that he didn't realize that the boy had been pushed and had instead assumed he had slipped, made Joran angry. Angry at Jaime and Cersei for committing the act, at Rob for keeping the knowledge from him, and most of all himself for failing to remember everything and come to the realization on his own.

Hiding his rage from the boy, Joran took Bran into a tight embrace that conveyed his concern to the child.

"I'm glad you told me, Bran," Joran said in a kind and quiet tone. "That's quite a burden to bear on your own, for one so young. And I'm glad to help in carrying the knowledge with you."

Sitting with Bran in his arms for a time, Joran thought of the dark deeds he'd have in mind for the Kingslayer when next they met. But those would have to wait. Presently, Joran would need to have words with Rob Stark.


End file.
